


Dear Teacher, With Love

by fancyh



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (yet), Alpine the cat - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, America and Kate aren't superheroes here, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Fluff, Headaches & Migraines, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Just annoying teenagers, Light Angst, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Homecoming Compliant, Past Brainwashing, Past Drug Use, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Some Humor, Teacher Bucky Barnes, Transformative Works Welcome, and in high school in 2014, pretend Peter is older in this universe, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2019-09-26 07:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 61,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17137298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancyh/pseuds/fancyh
Summary: In which Bucky Barnes becomes a teacher. Includes snarky teenagers, copious amounts of Starbucks, a cat named Alpine, and a soft redemption story for our favorite hero.





	1. First Semester (Sep-Jan)

**Author's Note:**

> Bucky with glasses (except in this fic he would have more of a beard and long hair tied back like in Black Panther/Infinity War):  
> 

"Hello," Bucky says.

Twenty young faces stare back at him blankly, gangly limbs sprawled in their narrow desks. Bucky takes a moment to wonder if this is a huge mistake. 

"I'm your teacher for the rest of the year." He turns, picking up the marker and writing in looping cursive on the whiteboard. 

_Mr. Beck_

The actual science teacher just happens to be suffering from some rather nasty contusions and an abrupt departure from the country. Apparently, Hydra wasn't above recruiting high school biology teachers. Taking the Hydra teacher's job not only gives Bucky possibly the best cover imaginable, but allows him to keep an eye on the school for more Hydra infiltration. If Hydra is brainwashing students, something needs to be done.

He adjusts the black-rimmed glasses on his face before continuing to write the lesson plan on the board as the class murmurs and shifts. It's been five months since the Helicarriers, five months of staying hidden while trying to figure out who he is after Hydra. Memories have come back slowly, trickling in like grains of sand, and he's reclaimed the name  _Bucky,_ but he still doesn't feel like Bucky Barnes, Howling Commando and Captain America's Best Friend.  _Steve's_ best friend. 

No, he can't face Steve yet, though he knows Steve is looking for him. He still needs time, though a part of him wonders if he will ever be ready to face Steve again, no matter how much time has passed. For now, he pushes it to the back of his mind, focusing on getting through every day. No one, even Steve, will expect the Winter Soldier to be working as a substitute biology teacher in Queens. Besides, with his hair pulled back, a trimmed beard hiding his face, and large glasses, he looks nothing like either the Winter Soldier or Bucky Barnes. He likes the thought of that, for some reason.

His metal hand is hiding under a black leather glove, and his carefully crafted identity as Iraqi war veteran James Beck (with a master's degree in natural science education) allows him to play it off as a war injury he wants to keep covered. He'd pulled on all his training to ace the job interview, a smile pulling at rusted facial muscles and artful words slipping from numb lips. It's been so long since he was anything but a blunt weapon, but the Russians had trained him well, and he'd pulled off his cover with ease.

Teaching kids, however, will be a different story. 

When he finishes writing the lesson plan and turns, the students are still watching him with tired eyes, some still curled around coffee mugs and looking dead to the world. Apparently first period, eight a.m. is simply too early for sixteen-year-old high school juniors already three weeks into the semester. They're on the cellular energy and related processes unit, according to the syllabus of the recently departed Mr. Forsyth, and Bucky had inhaled veritable mountains of books on biology and teaching in order to prepare for the job. Luckily, whatever serum Hydra gave him seems to give him the ability to retain vast amounts of information, and he'd quickly caught up on modern science. 

Learning about technology was even better. Bucky turns on the projector and pulls down the screen, opening up the incredibly useful powerpoint left by the Hydra asshole. He  _loves_ technology. 

"This week is the cell," he starts, clicking to the first slide. "The cell-"

He stops, blinks. A hand waves in the air above a head of curly hair, jaw working around a piece of gum.

"Yes?" he says dumbly.

"What happened to Mr. Forsyth?" The rest of the students nod and look expectantly at him.

 _He was a Hydra asshole,_ he wants to say. 

"Extended vacation."

_Permanent vacation._

That gets him some raised brows and puzzled looks. Bucky takes a breath. "The-"

Seriously. He's really, truly, starting to wonder if he can do this. The Fist of Hydra, defeated by pimply teens. Or, one teen in particular, dark eyes narrowed and hand hanging lazily in the air.

"Yes," he growls. He thinks perhaps he should know the insufferable student's name, if he's going to be a real teacher. "What's your name?"

"America Chavez," she answers promptly. "You said the  _rest of the year._ Do you mean until the rest of this semester, of the rest of the school year? Because this is a two-semester advanced biology course, and we're getting college credit for this. No offense, Mr. B, but I really need a five on the AP test, so I need to know if you can teach advanced biology."

He stares for a moment. Collects his thoughts. Remembers that murder is bad, and children are good. Breathes once, twice, three times.

"I don't know how long I'll be here," he admits. "But I know what I'm doing."  _He doesn't._

He'll have to figure out what the hell a  _five_ on an  _AP test_ is. 

"I know biology," he says shortly, when Chavez still doesn't look appeased.  _That's true, at least._  "You'll get your five."

Chavez looks dubious, but slumps back in her seat resignedly. Checking twice to make sure she's not going to interrupt again, Bucky turns his attention back to the slides at last and begins to read.

* * *

He thinks he did an okay job if he does say so himself. He read off the slides, answered questions, and didn't murder anyone. All the kids filed out of the classroom in one piece - no lab today- and now he only has to get through - he checks the clock - five more hours of school. Ugh.

He spends the hours between ten and noon doing more prep work for his afternoon introductory biology course, although he does use the internet to look up  _AP test scores._ A five is a perfect, apparently. Well, Bucky knows a damn sight more biology than America Chavez - probably - but he'll get her that goddamn five if it's the last thing he does. Take that, America Chavez. He's a  _real_ teacher.

He spends approximately eight seconds banging his head on the desk before resuming his mission.

At exactly twelve o'clock he retrieves the paper bag stashed under his desk and eats approximately two thousand calories of meat and bread. Learning to eat again after Hydra had been an experience he's not keen to repeat, involving much experimentation, pain, and reappearance of most of his meals, usually with what felt like the entire lining of his stomach. Apparently, switching from intravenous feeding to actual food is hard even for a super-soldier, especially since he's discovered that his daily caloric needs surpass ordinary humans' by quite a lot.

After lunch is introductory biology, which is fortunately smoother than AP Bio. The kids don't really seem to care that there's a substitute except for a few who eye him in a way that makes him distinctly uncomfortable, and he even suspects that a couple don't actually notice. One spends the entire period asleep in the back. Half the students use their phones during class, but apparently they're so bad at deception and subterfuge it's not until halfway through that he realizes they're  _actually_ trying to hide their phone usage from him. They actually, truly believe they are successful, too. Bucky despairs at the state of humanity and barely resists the urge to bang his head on the desk again. That would not be useful to the mission.

He makes it through the class and its subsequent lab, releasing the students at the exact minute the school day ends at 3:02 pm. Mostly, he's finding, teaching involves reading from slides and giving students orders, which usually are followed with only the slightest amount of exaction. He'll have to consult his teaching books.

After cleaning up the room and setting up for the next day he leaves, walking the mile to his apartment in its run-down, crumbling neighborhood. His apartment is on the second floor of the complex, no elevator, and he only passes one person as he climbs up and lets himself in his door. The inside is small, just a living room and kitchen making up the majority of the space and a short hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom, and it's bare but for the few sparse belongings he has accumulated. Newspapers are taped over the windows, rugs and shelves arranged strategically in the event of an attack. In the bedroom, journals filled with fragmented memories and crazed post-Hydra scribblings are piled by the mattress and sleeping bag on the floor, a go-bag stashed beneath a loose floorboard. Weapons are hidden everywhere, a knife under his thin pillow. He'd stolen quite a bit of Hydra money when he'd first gotten out, and the small closet is adequately filled with acceptable clothes for a teacher as well as comfortable clothes he's discovered and now hoards.

His slacks are exchanged for sweatpants, button-up for a black t-shirt. His fake glasses are placed carefully on the bathroom counter, a glance in the mirror showing the same unfamiliar face. He doesn't think the old Bucky ever had a beard, or long hair. He pulls the rubber band out, snagging on the strands, and frowns in frustration at the mess that falls around his face. There's a distinct dent from the band. 

He would cut his hair short, but the thought of letting someone with scissors near his face is abhorrent, and he doesn't trust his own barbershop skills. Sighing, he gives up his hair as a lost cost and treads quietly to the kitchen. 

When he opens his fridge, there's adequate food to last him a few days, and he grabs the jug of milk and drinks straight from it before grabbing a clean notebook on the counter and flipping to the first page, unclipping the pen from the binding.

 _Day 1,_ he writes.  _Monday, September 22, 2014._

The day's events go down in looping cursive, along with notes for future improvement. That done, Bucky pulls out his stolen Hydra laptop and googles  _how to be a good teacher._ This yields dozens of results, and he flips to the next page in the notebook as he clicks on the first link.

 _How to be a good teacher,_ he writes in the notebook. And writes. And writes, until his growling stomach urges him to eat dinner - chicken and rice - and retreat to the sleeping bag on his mattress with a book on biology. The light outside dims, replaced with the pale yellow of his bare bulb, and eventually he makes his last tour of the perimeter and checks all the locks before curling up in his sleeping bag and shutting his eyes.

Nightmares visit him, as they do every night, and he wakes in darkness gasping and shaking. He lurches out of bed and flicks on the light, shaking flesh hand and whirring metal one fumbling for the battered half-full notebook and pen beside his bed. Pushing sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes, he scribbles out the details of his dream in shaky letters, the memory firming in his mind. Hydra, this time. A mission. One shot, the target falling through his scope. 

He squints at the battered clock on the floor, sighing. 

_4:16 a.m._

He knows he won't be getting any more sleep tonight, not with the memory of blood spattering cream walls fresh in his mind. Instead he grabs the worn copy of  _The Hobbit_ sitting next to the bed and reads until the first rays of sun peek through the curtains, bathing the room in light. He sets the book down, showers, dresses in slacks and a button-up. He makes a lunch and stuffs it into a paper bag. He wrangles his hair into a rubber band. He pulls the black glove onto the metal hand, slides the glasses onto his face, gathers his things in a backpack slung over his shoulder, and starts the day.

There's a coffee shop halfway to school, one of a popular chain called  _Starbucks_ that he's found himself quite addicted to even if their coffee is of dismal quality and they use too much sugar. The sweetness on his tastebuds is strange but not unwelcome, after years without food and more before that with only army rations. Besides, the caffeine is helpful for increasing functionality. He still hasn't fully shaken the withdrawal from the stimulants Hydra had had him on, though at least the withdrawal from the other drugs is over. That hadn't been a fun time.

He orders a bacon, gouda, and egg breakfast sandwich and a venti caramel macchiato and eats on the way, pushing through the doors of the school with cup still in hand. Since it's arrival time for students, the doors are completely unlocked and there's no security measures, which allows him to bring a fair number of knives with him every day. While great for him, it's slightly concerning for the vulnerable young students.

Knowing he has to ingratiate himself into the school, he ducks into the teacher's lounge to make an appearance and start contact with other teachers. He hasn't ruled out others being Hydra yet. There's a few teachers already milling around, drinking coffee and eating donuts someone seems to have brought, and Bucky stashes his lunch in the communal fridge as they notice him for the first time.

"Hey, you're the new teacher, right? For Chuck Forsyth?" 

_Carl Daniels, 57, English teacher. Wife, two children. 31-35 55th Street._

Bucky turns with an amicable smile, cheeks pulling at the motion. He holds out a hand to shake. "That I am. James Beck."

"Carl Daniels." His handshake is soft, like most civilians, and Bucky gentles his own. "Surprised us all, Chuck leaving so abruptly, without a word. Glad you're here. If you need anything, just ask."

"I appreciate it."

One by one, the other teachers introduce themselves to him, not that he needs the introduction. He's done his homework (hah!), and he already knows everything there is to know about them. Still, becoming close with them will allow him to detect any Hydra presence still in the school. None of them show any recognition, but then again the Winter Soldier's face or true identity isn't very well-known, even within Hydra. Only those working directly with him ever knew or saw his face uncovered. He'll have to be vigilant if he wants to identify undercover Hydra members.

He leaves the lounge with backpack still slung over his shoulder, not setting it down until he's in the classroom. Once emptied of essentials for the school day it goes under his desk, out of sight and hopefully out of reach of sticky-fingered teens. It wouldn't do to have them discover the knives tucked inside. 

The half hour until students arrive is spent reviewing his lesson plan for the day, the action of reviewing settling his constant niggling anxiety. It helps, to have something resembling a mission. Too much unstructured time and his brain starts spinning out of control. He still can't help checking the windows, pulling the blinds, looking up every time someone passes the classroom door. 

Eventually, 7:50a.m. rolls around, and the AP Biology class files in, talking amongst themselves as they take their seats. He observes, cataloguing affiliations and tensions, part out of habit and part curiosity. American Chavez and her friend, who is apparently called Kate, discuss the  _oppressive heteropatriarchy and the intersection of race and class,_ which Bucky wonders is code or, perhaps, another language entirely. Most likely, another future thing he doesn't understand. Fucking Hydra.

Having learned from extensive internet searching and books that developing rapport is essential for teachers, Bucky, per the books, has the students recite their names and an interesting fact about themselves that has the added bonus of providing valuable intel. Kate is Kate Bishop, apparently, and she loves archery. America Chavez looks straight at him and, with a glint in her eyes that reminds Bucky of Steve for some reason, says, "I'm gay."

Bucky blinks, too surprised to do anything but nod. The class shifts and some smirk, but no one seems surprised. Common knowledge, then. America sits back in her chair with crossed arms as if daring him to do something, but Bucky doesn't know what. Sexuality is the last thing on his mind after seventy years of mind-control and then five months of being on the run from Hydra and learning how to be a person again. He's not sure what reaction he's  _supposed_ to have and, quite frankly, doesn't have an opinion at all. He knows, somehow, that being gay was a bad thing back in the original Bucky's time, but based on the scrambled memories of him and Steve he doesn't think they subscribed to that view. He's wondered, increasingly, if he and Steve were lovers, but he has enough to deal with that he's put it to the back of his mind. If America is gay, he's certainly not going to judge, or whatever she seems to be expecting. He really, truly,  _does not care._

The class passes in a blur, and then it's time for the lab, which involves microscopes and fragile glass slides in slippery teenage fingers. Luckily, advanced biology means the students actually seem to know what they're doing, and Bucky mainly prowls around the room and nods approvingly as they work through the lab packet and peer through their microscopes. 

"Mr. B?"

"Yes." Bucky wanders over to where America and Kate stand around their microscope, the bright and clashing colors of their clothing giving him a headache. Kate seems to have a serious penchant for purple - which, strange, but okay - while America seems to take her name literally and sports a blue t-shirt with a white star under a jean jacket with red and white stripes on the shoulders. Bucky pushes thoughts of Steve and the bloodstained holes in his Captain America uniform away. 

"I'm not seeing the vacuoles. Can you take a look?"

Bucky nods, bending over the microscope and twiddling the dials until it comes into clearer focus. He's thankful he researched how to use a microscope, or his cover would be blown. He shifts the slide until a better cell is visible, and finds the vacuoles, straightening up.

"There's a clear one on the left side now." He thinks America already knew how to find it, she just wanted to test him. Well, point one for Barnes. 

America looks, and then nods, appraising him. "Thanks."

Bucky feels like he somehow passed a test he didn't even know he was taking. He also thinks this is going to be a long year.

* * *

_Gay,_ Bucky googles, shoveling store-bought mac and cheese into his mouth. He sits cross-legged on the mattress in soft sweatpants and a shirt, laptop balanced on his knees precariously. The search yields millions of results, and he starts the process of sifting through them, frowning at the plethora of new information. Apparently there's more than just gay and straight, there's a whole range of  _sexualities_ as well as  _genders,_ and Bucky is suitably impressed. Hydra apparently didn't consider this necessary information for him to know, and it feels like rebellion as he clicks and clicks. 

Life is better than in the 1930s, he finds, though there are still issues. He thinks he remembers Steve being called  _fairy,_ coming home with bloody noses and righteous fury in his eyes. He googles  _Captain America gay,_ but besides a bunch of threads speculating on his sexuality and others condemning the very notion, there's nothing from Steve himself. For some reason, he's disappointed. He knows without knowing how that Steve never apologized for a thing in his life, never really cared what others thought about him. Maybe his memories are wrong. Maybe Steve really is straight, and he's just imagining things. Another trick of his mind.

He thinks America is brave, to announce it in class. He understands, now, her challenging stare, the hint of nervousness she'd tried to cover with cocky confidence. She does not apologize for who she is, and she should not have to. He finds himself with grudging respect for her, despite everything. She reminds him of Steve. She reminds him of Peggy Carter. She reminds him that there are people like Hydra in the world, but there are also people like her and Steve and Peggy, who stand up, look the world in the eye, and tell it to move. 

He thinks he'd like to be one of those people.

* * *

At the end of the week, Bucky feels like he's got a handle on this teacher thing. Most students participate in class with the general apathy and barest competence unique to teenagers, with a few immediately standing out. America and Kate in his AP Biology class, and Peter Parker, Ned Leeds, and Michelle Jones in his introductory biology class. Freshman are infinitely worse than juniors, he's finding, but the strange trio of Peter, Ned, and Michelle make the class bearable. All exceptionally smart, Peter is a disaster, Ned is simply awkward, and Michelle radiates an aura of judgement and disinterest to rival America. Also, Michelle surreptitiously spies on Peter during class and draws him in her notebooks, and Peter seems to be terrified of her. It's fascinating. 

He also notices the whispers about his gloved hand, the rampant speculation.  _Maybe it's all burned,_ they whisper.  _Maybe he's just weird. Maybe it's a prosthetic. No, look, the fingers are moving._ The students don't even know his fake history as a Iraq war vet, so he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. He doesn't address the rumors, waiting for them die down eventually. Hopefully. 

Bucky spends the weekend obsessively preparing, worried he'll mess up somehow and incur the disappointment of his students. Also, blow his cover and bring Hydra down on him, but for some reason that's starting to feel secondary. He tries to keep busy, stockpiling groceries for the week and going down the rabbit hole of the internet - it turns out, the heteropatriarchy is very bad and intersectionality is important - but time stretches on and his brain rewards him by not letting him sleep, making him sit in the corner with a gun in hand all night twitching at every sound. He's glad when Monday rolls around.

He gets ready, packs his bag, and strolls into the school, wishing the other teachers in the break room good morning. Karen, one of the math teachers, smiles at him and blushes. Carl Daniels discusses college football with Greg Roberts, the physics teacher.

"How was your first week?" Ellen Green, the history teacher, asks. 

"Good," Bucky answers, unsure if he's telling the truth or not. 

"I'm glad. It must be hard, coming in a few weeks into the semester."

"Yeah." The best lie is close to the truth. "I was a little overwhelmed at first, but I think I have it figured out now."

He might have been overstating it, he finds, when instead of leaving after lab, America saunters to the front of the classroom, shoves her hands in her pockets, and asks, "Can I eat lunch in here?"

He blinks, not prepared for this situation, brain drawing a blank. "Uh, yeah," he says, in lieu of anything else. An irrational part of his brain wonders if America is secretly a Hydra agent spying on him, before he dismisses it. Damn paranoia. 

America grins and plonks down in an empty seat, withdrawing her lunch from her bag. As they seem to be attached at the hip, Kate follows her lead, opening a bright purple lunchbox and starting to eat. Bucky awkwardly edges out of the room and retrieves his lunch from the break room, hesitating before steeling himself and returning to the room like a man walking to his death. He sits at his desk and eats his food slowly while doing class prep, keeping an eye on America and Kate, who spend the period chatting and huddling over their phones conspiratorially. 

When the lunch period ends, America walks up to his desk, pops a stick of gum into her mouth, and says, "For the record, I hated Mr. Forsyth. You seem cool." Without further ado, she saunters away, Kate in tow, leaving Bucky to stare dumbly at the door. 

* * *

Bucky awakens with a scream on his lips, sleeping bag tangled around his legs and shirt soaked with sweat. He lays there gasping, the taste of rubber still in his mouth, the buzz of electricity ringing in his ears. His clock reads  _2:20 a.m._ He groans, pressing his hands to his head as he sits up and drawing a deep breath. He takes another, and another, until the shaking subsides slightly, then gets up. He checks his windows, unlocks and locks his door again, counts his weapons. Opens the fridge, guzzles milk. Throws up in the sink a minute later.

His hands shake as he brushes his teeth. He stares into the mirror, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the sweaty strands of hair sticking to his face. His beard needs a trim. His skin is pale and waxy, lips pale and bloodless. A sudden surge of rage drives his fist into the mirror, shattering it in pieces. 

"Fuck." He uncurls his hand, blood rapidly welling up. He pulls a shard from between his knuckles, tossing it to the floor as more blood spurts from the wound. Glass litters the floor, and he stares as blood drips steadily onto the tiles. It takes minutes before he snaps out of his stupor, gathering the glass shards in a towel and throwing them away then stripping one-handed and stepping into the shower. He scrubs the wounds in his hand, the pain barely registering, and doesn't bother washing his hair with shampoo, simply letting the water spill over his head. At least it's hot. That's more than he ever got with Hydra. 

Eventually, he shuts off the water, bandaging his hand with the medical supplies stockpiled in the bathroom cabinet and pulling on new sweatpants and a shirt. The sleeping bag needs to be washed, still damp with his sweat, so makes a mental note to hit the laundromat tomorrow and grabs his gun, folding himself into the corner of the kitchen with the best sight lines. He stays there until light filters through the newspapers over the window, signaling dawn has arrived. 

Without a mirror, he can't tell what he looks like, and he simply scrapes his tangled, frizzy hair back and hopes for the best. His head pounds, and he knows it is going to be a  _bad day._ Luckily, this is one of the most benign bad days. Some, his head hurts so bad he can't even open his eyes and spends his day throwing up. Others, he loses time or spends the day so paranoid he can't even get out of the corner, gripping his gun. So in comparison, this is a  _medium day._

"Are you alright?" Ellen asks him when he comes in, brown eyes warm with concern. "What happened to your hand?"

Bucky forces a small smile to his face, looking down at his still-bandaged hand, the cuts nearly healed. "Broke a glass."

She nods, looking sympathetic, and no one questions it further. He teaches, and America and Kate show up at lunchtime to eat in his room, eating each other's food and bickering over something inane. Bucky tries to concentrate on his powerpoint notes but the bright screen makes his head ache and he rubs his forehead in frustration, closing his eyes.

"What happened to your hand?"

He opens his eyes to see America and Kate staring curiously at the bandage. He'd noticed the students looking at it in class, but no one had asked. 

"Broke a glass," he grunts, dropping his hand to the desk. 

"Oh, that sucks." America turns back to Kate, and Bucky goes back to pretending to read his slides, head pounding.

* * *

Peter and Ned are whispering, unaware that Bucky can hear every word they say as they hunch over their lab table. 

"If you could successfully clone yourself," Ned says, "what would you do with the clone? See, personally, I'd make my clone go to school, so I could stay home and play video games."

Bucky stops right behind the oblivious teenagers. "Maybe your clone would pay more attention in class."

Peter and Ned both jump, cutting off curses. 

"Mr. Beck," Ned stutters. "Sorry. I didn't know you were there."

Bucky tries for a smile, though it comes out more like a grimace. "It's fine. How is your lab coming along?"

Peter holds up the packet, obviously flustered. "Uh, we finished."

Bucky holds out a hand and Peter gulps, relinquishing the lab. He flips through it, nodding. It's completed perfectly, a testament to their work ethic even if their attentional skills require improvement. He hands it back.

"Good job. You can have the rest of lab free."

They break into smiles, eyes lighting up. 

"Thanks, Mr. Beck!" Ned enthuses, before he and Peter start talking again, discussing the merits of cloning. Bucky moves on to Michelle's lab table, where she is the only person without a lab partner - her preference, it seems. Her lab is set aside and she's doodling in a notebook. 

"Done?" Bucky questions.

Michelle looks up briefly and nods. Bucky doesn't bother checking her lab, knowing she's telling the truth. Despite her disinterested persona, she's a hard worker. He glances at her drawing. Peter again. He thinks he understands her, the act. She's too afraid to actually tell Peter she likes him. Perhaps she worries he won't like what he sees. Bucky is too afraid to let Steve find him. He worries he won't like what he finds.

* * *

One of the unfortunate occurrences of living in a crumbling apartment is that he has to go to the laundromat. With his sweat-stained sleeping bag and dirty clothes shoved in a bag, Bucky skulks into the dingy laundromat around the corner from his apartment. He chooses an empty washer in the very back, paying for the laundromat's detergent in quarters. People come and go, many equally shabby and exhausted, and no one pays him any mind. He keeps his back to the wall, eyes on the entrance, scanning the room from under the brim of his hat.

Thirty minutes and his clothes are done in the washer. He turns to move them into the dryer, anxiety spiking at having his back to the entrance. The sleeping bag has ten more minutes to go in the washer.

Footsteps sound and someone puts their basket down to his left, opening the washer. 

"James, right?"

He startles, head whipping around to see that the newcomer is Maria Reyes, the choir teacher. He's only seen her a few times, as the music department tends to stay separate from the science.  

He clears his throat and extends his hand, forcing down the lingering panic. "Yes. Maria, right?"

She smiles, eyes crinkling as she squeezes his hand with a soft palm. She's young, probably around thirty, with pretty features and long dark hair. He checked her background, and she has no connections to Hydra, isn't likely to be Hydra in any case, but the fact that she's here makes him suspicious.

"I haven't seen you here before," he says casually. 

She grimaces. "Yeah, my washer broke. It's such a pain getting it fixed. I thought I recognized you, small world, right?"

"Yeah." He forces a smile. It's a plausible explanation, but he can't afford to be complacent. He'll have to keep an eye on her.

They make small talk while their laundry cycles - or rather, Maria chatters and Bucky gives one word answers and occasionally nods. His laundry is done first, and he collects his things and bids her goodbye, walking out onto the street. He hefts his laundry bag and proceeds to make a convoluted series of loops and turns around the neighborhood in case he's being followed before heading back to his apartment, locking the door as soon as he gets inside. He checks the windows, the locks, sweeps for bugs in every crack and crevice, unscrews the light to check it as well. His clean sleeping bag goes on the mattress, but he only dozes all night, lying with a hand on his knife under the pillow. 

* * *

_Day 10. Wednesday, October 1, 2014._

_Fellow teachers remain friendly. K displays behavior recognizable as "flirting." Could be future complication. Maintain distance, do not encourage interest._

_AC and KB continue to eat lunch in classroom. Potentially reduce mid-day calorie intake to reduce suspicion._

_MJ continues to observe PP covertly. Interested in potential resolution of situation. PP and NL oblivious._

_Students seem to respond better to varied information. Reading off slides causes boredom, texting, and falling asleep. Research indicates students like funny teachers - try to come up with jokes?_

 

_Day 11. Thursday, October 2, 2014._

_Jokes not a good idea. Very strange looks. May need to refine sense of humor. Internet?_

* * *

On October third, the internet informs him Yom Kippur is starting that night. It is a day of atonement, he knows this.  _Remembers._ He has missed the other observances, has forgotten until now, but the memories trickle in slowly. His mother, patiently teaching them Hebrew. His father's pretended indifference, as he bundled them to church every Sunday. The weight of grief, for skeleton bodies in striped clothing, their eyes accusing. The  _P_ stamped on his army tags, not a lie but not the truth, either. 

He has much to atone for, this year.

He does not eat or drink. He finds his way to a small synagogue on Saturday, making himself as unobtrusive as possible near the back and listening to the services throughout the day. He writes down a list of the victims he knows, their names or what they looked like, what he did to each of them. His shaky handwriting fills pages and pages. 

The rabbi finds him, as they seem to do. Some innate sense of the most troubled souls. 

"What if," Bucky asks quietly, hand clutched around the papers in his pocket, "there is no forgiveness for what you've done?"

"Ah, but there is always forgiveness," the rabbi says, eyes kind and grey. "We just have to be brave enough to accept it."

He leaves that night feeling somehow washed clean, the heaviness in his heart almost comforting. He carefully takes the papers with his confessions and folds them, pressing them in the last page of his Memory Journal. They deserve to be remembered.

He dreams of forgiveness, and this time, he accepts it. 

* * *

Bucky, frustrated of tucking strands of hair behind his ear, yanks out the rubber band to retie it, the band getting stuck in the tangles. He pulls again, and there's an audible snap as it breaks, his hair falling around his face. He sighs. 

There's a soft whoosh and an elastic band lands on his desk in front of him. He looks up in confusion to see Kate raise an eyebrow at him meaningfully before going back to her book. Bucky rakes his fingers through his hair and picks up the hair tie, pulling it back successfully. Kate smirks down at her book. 

He finds, when he goes to take it out that night, that elastic hair ties rip his hair far less than rubber bands. It's an important finding, and he adds hair elastics to his shopping list for the weekend. 

Saturday finds him at the local grocery store, hat pulled low over his eyes, standing in the aisle as he contemplates the sheer number of options. There's simply too many. Who needs twenty different types of cereal? He's had a hard enough time learning to make his own choices after Hydra, he doesn't need this.  

A hand reaches past him, snagging a box of  _Lucky Charms._ He automatically moves aside for the customer, glancing at them only to do a double take when he recognizes Michelle. She gives him a salute and raises the box as she walks away.

"Later, Mr. B."

He just blinks, before turning back to the rack and grabbing the Lucky Charms. When he gets back, he pours the dubious looking cereal into a bowl and adds milk before taking a bite. It is...horrible, truly. Cardboard-tasting shapes, tiny colored marshmallows so fake they leave a film on his teeth. He loves it.

He also buys a coffee maker and five different types of coffee. It turns out to be the only thing getting him through the day. He still stops by Starbucks occasionally, but not enough that it is routine, should anyone try to follow him. He finds if he buys a insulated mug and fills it with homemade coffee in the morning, he can get another hit of caffeine at lunchtime. When he gets home, he makes another pot. It's enough to alleviate the lethargy and mood swings that have dogged him since getting off enough methamphetamine to send an elephant on a rampage. He'd read the encrypted Hydra files online about him no one else seems to have found. Methamphetamine, caffeine, antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, opiates, steroids, anticonvulsants, the list went on and on. He's determined never to touch drugs again, but he'll make an exception for caffeine. 

The days pass, and he starts to settle into his new life. He learns all the students' names, knows their habits and quirks, knows which ones actually do the work and which don't. The kids warm to him, start to be less uncertain in his presence. America seems to approve. Peter and Ned, when they realize he doesn't care about their intense debates during class if they do the work, begin to talk his ear off about everything and ask questions he's not prepared for. He has to get another book on biology just to keep up with them.

For some reason, America's habit of calling him "Mr. B" instead of "Mr. Beck" has caught on, and everyone addresses him as such. He doesn't mind it. 'Beck' is an invented name, but "Mr. B." could just as easily mean  _Mr. Barnes._ And he's spent enough time trying to reclaim his name that pretending everyone is calling him it makes something warm grow in his chest.  

The other teachers call him "James," which is still his real name, and Bucky thinks abruptly one day that what he's doing here feels authentic. There is no sign of Hydra in the school, and though he sees Maria at the laundromat and Michelle occasionally at the grocery store he's deduced neither of them are following him. So what is he still doing here?

If he's honest with himself, he  _likes_ it here. He likes being a teacher, likes the students, likes learning about biology. It's structured, relatively easy, and involves no murder or treason. He's putting  _good_ into the world. He is not terrible at being a teacher, either. He's not as good at it as he is at killing people, because no one is as good as him at killing people, but it's still something he's modestly good at. He doesn't want to fight anymore. He's done. He's had his share of blood and death. He wants to spend his days listening to the entirely mundane and petty problems of teenagers and lecturing on how plants photosynthesize. 

It's a startling revelation, one that keeps him up at night. It's so tempting to think this can be his life forever, but he knows better. He's the Winter Soldier. Nothing he does will ever erase that, erase what he is. If Hydra doesn't find him, someone else will. Steve would be the best case scenario, but even he would want to bring Bucky in,  _fix him,_ probably try and get him absolved from his crimes. The government would snatch him away, and he'd either be executed, imprisoned the rest of his life, or used again. There are no happy endings for someone like him. 

It doesn't stop him from wanting one so badly his soul aches.

* * *

It is halfway into October when he has a  _very bad day._ He wakes with a blinding migraine and the feeling that ants are crawling all over him, burrowing into his skin. He tastes rubber, the scent of electricity in his nose. The seam of his metal shoulder burns with cold fire. 

He drinks an entire pot of coffee and drags himself to work, squinting against the bright lights as his head throbs. 

"You alright?" Carl asks. "You look a bit under the weather."

"Headache," he murmurs. 

"Maybe you should have called in," Ellen says, always the motherly one. A hand lands on his metal shoulder and he flinches back, standing abruptly. 

"I'm fine." He forces a smile. "Really. Happens a lot." He leaves before they can question him more, the room feeling claustrophobic. He escapes to his classroom, drawing the blinds and turning off most of the lights, curling into his chair and taking off his glasses to rub his temples. His stomach churns with nausea, even though he'd eaten nothing this morning. His hair is down, the act of pulling it back too much to deal with today, and it falls in his face annoyingly. How had the Winter Soldier done missions with it like this? Surely, someone must have proposed cutting his hair in seventy years. 

"Fucking Hydra," he whispers. Saying it makes him feel better, somehow.

He spends the first thirty minutes of the morning huddled in his chair like a pathetic gremlin, only turning the lights on and opening the door at seven forty-five. He shoves his glasses back onto his face, hating them with every fiber of his being, rakes a hand through his hair, and steels himself. If he could make it through seventy years of Hydra, he can make it through this. 

The students file in, coffee-soaked and altogether too loud for his aching head. When they're settled Bucky passes out their graded lab reports from the previous week, ignoring the curious once-overs. He's never worn his hair down before. He's also heard some of the things students titter - mainly the girls - and has learned, to his horror, that some of his students think he's  _hot._ The glasses, apparently, and his face, and his shoulders. And the clothes. Everything, really. He's been called a  _hipster,_ which he looked up and decided he definitely  _isn't,_ thank you very much. Though he appreciates the usefulness of the man-bun, and has contemplated learning how to do it instead of his usual raggedy pony-tail. 

Lab reports handed back, he takes his position in the front of the room, clearing his throat before starting to lecture. Looking at the projector screen hurts his eyes, so he relies on his memory of the material, speaker softer than normal in an attempt to save his head. He makes it through the lecture period, thankfully, and gets the students started on the lab, which involves them building a 3-D cell membrane. Students chat happily as they snip scissors through biomolecule cut-outs, making phospholipid bilayer boxes and taping proteins together, the noise grating on Bucky's nerves. The scissors grind, snip, and he stifles a flinch. 

He hovers by America and Kate's table, watching as they build their membrane with sure fingers. 

"What's with the hair, Mr. B?" America asks, glancing up at him briefly. "Casual Tuesday?"

"Didn't feel like putting it up," Bucky replies distractedly, struggling to focus. 

"Hmm." America holds out a piece of tape for Kate. "Do you use conditioner?"

Bucky blinks. "Uh, no?"

"You probably should. Trust me, it'll make it easier to deal with." America twirls a lock of her curly hair around a finger. 

"Right. Thanks." Bucky escapes to another lab table, head pounding insistently. The rest of the lab passes uneventfully, and America and Kate settle in for lunch while Bucky heads to the break room, grabbing his thermos of coffee sitting on top of the fridge and taking a sip. His stomach churns, and he weighs the likelihood of throwing up the coffee against the power of caffeine for soothing his migraine. Caffeine wins.

Ellen strolls in, taking one look at him and tsking. "How are you holding up?"

Bucky lifts his right shoulder in a shrug. "Fine."

"I've got some ibuprofen in my bag, if you want."

He shakes his head. "No, thank you." It won't work on him, anyway. 

"You get headaches often?" She covers her mouth. "Sorry, that sounded nosy."

"It's fine." He fiddles with his mug. "I've got a uh....a head injury." It's not a lie.

"TBI?"

When he looks at her in confusion, she clarifies. "Traumatic brain injury?"

"Uh, yeah." He's not sure of the distinction. 

She nods, looking sympathetic. "My brother was in the army, that's how I know. Really, if you need to call out, it's okay."

He swallows, looking down at his hands wrapped around the mug. "Thanks." A strand of hair falls in his face and he frowns in annoyance, tucking it behind his ear. The crawling feeling is back, making him twitchy and restless, and he takes another sip of coffee to drown the taste of rubber in his mouth. 

Ellen rummages in the fridge, getting her lunch, and Carl enters, giving Bucky a nod. Bucky edges past him, heading to the door so he can sit in his room with America and Kate, hopefully with dimmed lights. 

"Oh hey, wait-"

A hand lands on his arm, the metal one. His mind goes white with static, and he blinks to find Carl's arm in his grip, metal hand inches away from his throat. Carl wears an expression of utter shock mingled with fear, and Bucky's gut twists. He never wants to put that expression on another human being's face. 

He drops his hand, steps back. "Fuck. Sorry. I'm sorry."

Carl blinks, wide-eyed. Clears his throat. "You, uh, maybe you should, uh, take the rest of the day off. Go home."

Bucky's head pounds, vision tunneling. "No, no, I-I'm fine, I just-" A thought occurs to him and he sucks in a breath. "I'd never hurt the kids,  _never._ Please don't-I don't want to be fired, I-I'm fine." There's ringing in his ears, his voice sounding a million miles away. "I don't hurt kids. They tried to make me, but I wouldn't. Even the spiders."  _Red hair and green eyes-_ "I never hurt them. I-"

"Okay, let's just take a breath." Ellen steps into his field of vision. "Carl, why don't you wait outside. I'll talk to you in a minute."

"Right, yeah, okay." There's footsteps and then the sound of the door closing. Bucky flinches. 

"Sit down, hon. It's alright." Bucky sits down dazedly in the nearest chair, awareness trickling back in. He'd ruined everything, blown his cover, nearly attacked an innocent civilian. 

He pulls off his glasses, tossing them on the table, and puts his head in his hands. "Fuck."

"You know, my brother struggled a lot when he got back," Ellen says, and he hears the scrape of a chair. "He's got a prosthetic leg and PTSD. An IED took out his whole unit." She pauses. "You've got nothing to be ashamed of. You were startled, that's all. Carl's just worried about you. No one's going to fire you for having a bad day."

"What if it's more than a bad day?" Bucky mumbles, face still hidden by his hands.

"Well, obviously it's more than a bad day. Doesn't mean you should lose your job because you're struggling." When he stays silent, she asks, "How long have you been home?"

Bucky presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Six months." He takes a breath, lifting his head. "I was...." He swallows. "I was a prisoner of war." It feels like a weight lifts off his shoulders, saying those words out loud to someone else. "I have...amnesia, and I'm still trying to figure everything out. I just...I really like this job. And I'd never do anything to hurt the kids. I swear."

"I believe you." He glances up, and Ellen offers him a small smile. "No one else needs to know about this. If I thought even for a moment you were a danger, I'd report you in a heartbeat. But I don't. So you just worry about taking care of yourself, alright?"

Bucky nods, relief flowing through him. "Thank you. And I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize. I'll talk to Carl. Now, do you think you can get through the rest of the day?"

"Yeah." He sits straighter, taking a deep breath. "Yeah. I'm okay."

He makes it through the rest of the day in a fog, thankful that there's no lab for intro bio that day. He dims the lights and presses a cold water bottle to his head until it's time to leave, immediately shutting himself in his apartment and curling up on his mattress. He forces down some rice for dinner and manages to fall asleep, waking to his stomach growling and his head significantly improved. Carl seems careful not to touch him at work, but there's something understanding in his eyes, and Bucky thanks G-d for Ellen. It seems he's found an ally here, against all odds. It's nice.

* * *

That weekend, Bucky stands in the grocery store aisle, staring suspiciously at the different brands of conditioner. They all tout different properties, from  _damage repair_ to  _smooth and sleek,_ and in the end he swipes three different types at random and dumps them into his cart. Back in his apartment, he hops in the shower and tries them out, following the instructions and unimpressed when the dime-sized blob doesn't even cover an inch of his hair. He squeezes more into his hand, and more, until he can coat his entire hair. After rinsing, he wraps a towel around his waist and picks up the comb he'd bought, staring into the newly hung mirror as he works it through the gnarled strands. After much cursing and what looks to be half of his hair on the floor, it's finally smooth and detangled, drying around his face in waves. He contemplates his beard in the mirror and trims it with scissors until it's neat again, making him look less like a sleep-deprived assassin and more like a normal human being.

When his hair finally dries, he finds it soft and silky, and he vows to never forgo conditioner again. Opening his laptop, he pulls up YouTube and spends the next hour learning how to put his hair up in a bun. The front strands still fall out, but he tucks them behind his ears, pleased with himself. Then he searches the internet for  _PTSD_ and  _TBI,_ writing down his findings in yet another notebook he'd bought, this time for future things he learns. Based on the information, he concludes that he has PTSD, and that mind-wiping could probably fall under a traumatic brain injury. His migraines certainly fit the bill. 

He finds reams of information on how to cope with PTSD, and takes up two pages in his notebook with tips. Meditation, physical activity, social support, and healthy habits seem to be the most common suggestions, as well as professional help. He tabs that for later consideration. 

Meditation just seems to be like the state of mind he falls into when waiting for the perfect shot. He's not sure he wants to go there again. Physical activity, he can do. He writes down running as a possibility, searches yoga videos on YouTube and becomes intrigued. He clicks on a good tutorial and does yoga in his living room, sustaining the poses with relative ease. He's out of shape, though, he can tell. Withdrawal, then relearning how to eat had stripped his body of fat, and lack of exercise has softened his muscles. He's starting to feel the strain on his spine from the weight of the metal arm. He makes a note to begin a training regimen. 

Social support he immediately throws out. He's actively running from his only friend in the world, so. Though maybe Ellen counts as social support. Is she a friend? He has nothing but Steve to base friends on, and he doesn't think Steve is the best example. They practically shared a soul.

Healthy habits. The eating, he has down. The sleeping, not so much. He's not sure what to do about that, and sleeping pills aren't an option. He makes a note to revisit the subject in the future.

Sunday finds him working through stacks of lab reports and homework while also trying to create the midterm for both classes. Being a teacher is  _hard,_ he's found. And time consuming. But he doesn't mind the work, likes the organized tedium of it all. It's better than killing people and having his mind fried and then getting stuffed into a freezer every so often.

On Monday he comes in with hair smooth and shiny and pulled back into a bun, and both America and Kate give him identical looks of approval. Girls and guys alike giggle and blush. Bucky ignores it stoically. The week is devoted to review for both his classes, and then midterms are administered, frazzled-looking students hunching over their desks and scribbling furiously. 

Bucky thinks he's done a good job preparing them. They've certainly been doing well on labs and the few things of homework he assigns them. He's not a big believer in homework, appalled at the students' already long days and exhausting workload, but it's apparently a necessary evil sometimes. 

America is the first one to turn in her test in the morning, and Peter Parker is the first one to turn in his test in the afternoon. Maybe Bucky shouldn't have scheduled the midterms for two classes in one week, he thinks, as he looks at the looming pile of tests waiting to be graded. But come that weekend, methodically going through them helps to distract him from thoughts of impending doom, and he manages to only check his locks twice during the day. It's an improvement. 

When he wakes up early from a nightmare, instead of huddling the rest of the night with his gun he drags on clothes and goes for a run, sweat quickly evaporating in the crisp air. It's the week of Halloween, and there are decorations on many of the buildings, spider cut-outs pasted in the windows. 

Bucky runs for an hour before heading inside, booting up his laptop and doing yoga before taking a shower and getting ready for work. Eggs go in the pan, coffee percolating with loud slurping noises. He tugs on a sweater over his button-up, the chill in the apartment seeping through the layers. He runs hot due to Zola's serum, but he can't shake the cold of cryofreeze that settles into his bones. He's already thought about buying more blankets for his makeshift bed. 

He eats, pours his coffee into his mug, pulls back his hair into a bun and slides his glasses on. Slings his bag over his shoulder, full of graded tests. Triple-checks the windows, then leaves the apartment and locks the door, jogging down the stairs. 

The break room is teeming when he gets there, the teachers chatting amongst themselves.

"Ugh, Halloween," he hears. "There'll be no keeping them focused all week."

"At least it's Friday this year," someone replies. "Last year, there were kids showing up to school hungover."

"Seriously? They're way too young to be drinking."

"Doesn't seem to stop them. But come on, we all did the same when we were younger. Sophomore year of college, I got so trashed on Halloween I ended up sleeping in a bush. Woke up and went to class with leaves in my hair."

Bucky digests  _that_ mental image, squeezing around people to get to the fridge. He's pretty sure he has hazy memories of the Commandos getting outrageously drunk and Morita puking in a boot, but he can't connect it to Halloween. His only memories of the holiday involve soaping windows and then running like hell. The idea of going door-to-door begging for candy doesn't seem to have any relevance in his brain. Maybe the times were different?

"What about you, James?"

Bucky snaps out of his musings, turning to Greg. "What?"

"Any wild Halloween stories? You're the youngest one here, you've got to have a few."

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, thinking desperately. "Um, I don't know." A memory comes to mind, unbidden. 

 _Tweezers digging into his thigh, the smell of antiseptic, laughter._  

_"What are your kids going as for Halloween this year?"_

_"Power Rangers. Here, I've got a picture." The tweezers pause. A hand reaches across and the doctor peers at the phone screen, grinning._

_"They're adorable. I miss those days. Now mine are in college, probably killing their livers instead of eating candy. Enjoy it while it lasts." The tweezers dig into his thigh again, gloved fingers pulling the wound apart. Sweat beads on his forehead. He grits his teeth, biting down on a scream._

He blinks, the memory dissolving in front of his eyes. The others are still staring at him, waiting for a response. 

"Um." He clears his throat. "I don't really, um. Have any. Stories. Anyway, I should-I should go-"

He flees without waiting for an answer, not stopping until he's safely locked in his classroom. He sinks down in his chair and puts his head in his hands, trying to breathe. 

* * *

"What's a...me-me?"

The class bursts into laughter. Bucky frowns, confused, and looks back at the piece of paper he'd liberated from his students. 

"It's pronounced  _meme,"_ Peter Parker says, coming to Bucky's rescue. "It's like, something that's funny, but in an iconic way. Like a picture of someone making a face that goes viral."

"Right." Bucky only understands half of what Peter said. "No.... _memes_ in class."

Someone giggles. Bucky doesn't even want to know. He sighs, crumpling the paper and tossing it without looking, landing it perfectly into the trash. 

"Nice shot," Michelle says from the back of class. 

"Thank you. Now, back to your labs, or I'm giving homework."

There's groans, but the class obediently goes back to work, carefully wetting their seeds on paper towels. Bucky is already done with Halloween week, and it's barely started.

He does looks up memes when he gets home, and is thoroughly confused and amused. Kids these days are terrifying, he thinks. 

On Thursday night, he runs to the grocery store and buys bags of candy, leaving some at home and bringing the rest to school the next day. It's Halloween, and some students wear costumes, even though the school had tried to discourage them. Bucky passes out the candy to his classes and leaves the bags on his desk for any greedy students, feeling inordinately pleased by the beaming smiles the kids bestow on him. Candy-giving elicits goodwill, apparently. 

America comes to school wearing a Captain America costume. Bucky's heart skips a beat, and he swallows down the surge of emotion that threatens to overwhelm him. It's not like it looks anything like Steve's anyway, and he's used to seeing America in red, white, and blue constantly. He's not sure why it hits him so hard this time. 

"Captain America?" someone scoffs. "No one's even heard from him since he did all that shit in DC. They probably, like, threw him in jail for almost destroying the whole city."

America's eyes flash. "He  _saved_ the city, asshole. He saved the world! Or would you rather Hydra took over?"

"I don't believe that shit about Hydra. I think it's a cover-up for what really went down. Captain America tried to take over the government."

"Are you  _stupid?_ You fucking-"

"Enough!" Bucky's voice cracks like a whip, and a stunned silence falls. He's had enough experience wrangling young soldiers and, worst of all, the goddamn Howling Commandos and Steve-I-like-getting-punched-Rogers to know how to make people fall in line. His blood is boiling, rage simmering under his skin. How  _dare_ they believe Steve the villain in this, when the real villain is standing right in front of them.

He takes a deep breath, unclenching his fists. "I don't care what else you learn in this class. Hydra is real, and they do bad shit." He feels the surprise in the room at the curse. "If they'd won in DC, we'd all be living in a very different world." He wouldn't be here, for one. "Steve Rogers has given his  _life_ for this country, and he nearly gave his life again to stop Hydra in DC." He thinks of blood blossoming against white stripes, the crack of a cheekbone under his fist. "Steve does what is  _right,_ always, not what is easy. And if you think for one moment that he's the bad guy here then you don't know him at all. Hydra have always been the bad guys. Always."

The kid who argued with America - Kyle - raises his hand. "Mr. B., all due respect, but if Hydra really was inside the government all along, wouldn't someone have noticed? I mean, come on. Evil Nazis, really?"

"No," Bucky says, trying to keep his hand from trembling. "No one noticed, because Hydra isn't evil Nazis with armbands. It's people with families, people who talk about taking their kids trick-or-treating while they're elbow-deep in someone else's blood. It's your neighbor, your teacher, your goddamn  _friend._ It's Alexander Pierce, who apparently turned down a Nobel Peace Prize, but caused so many people pain and suffering. They're people you think are  _good_. They believe in what they're doing. They don't look evil, not on the surface. Not until they stop seeing you as human. And people can do terriblethings when they stop seeing you as human." He swallows. " _Horrifying_  things."

* * *

"Thanks for saying that." America perches on a desk at the front of the room, Kate in her strange purple costume next to her, bow in hand. "It's really concerning that a lot of people don't believe the Hydra thing was real."

Bucky scowls. "It's real."

"I know. When we're older, both me and Kate want to be Avengers."

Bucky looks up, shocked. "What?"

Kate raises her arrow-less bow. "I'm going to be the next Hawkeye. America wants to be the next Captain America. We want to fight people like Hydra, make a difference."

Bucky is viscerally reminded of Steve. "There are a lot of other ways to make a difference, you know."

Kate shrugs. "Yeah, but I like this one best."

"But you're not, you know..."

"Superpowered?" America suggests.

"Yeah."

"The original Hawkeye doesn't have super powers," Kate points out. "Neither does Black Widow."

Bucky frowns, sure somehow that that isn't true. She's enhanced slightly, he thinks. 

"Tony Stark is a normal person, too," America chimes in. "He's just got the iron man suit. I'll figure something out."

"I get that you want to help," Bucky says carefully, "but sometimes fighting isn't the answer. It's....there's a lot of bad in the world, and once you have a target painted on you, it never goes away. You don't get a normal life."

America smiles ruefully. "I was never gonna get one anyway. And I already have a target painted on me, might as well make the most of it."

Maybe, Bucky thinks, she has a point.

* * *

"So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving this year?" Ellen asks, digging a fork into her mac and cheese.

Bucky shrugs. "Haven't thought about it." He'd forgotten it existed, truthfully. 

"Going to see family?"

He swallows, sets his fork down, coldness spreading in his gut. "Don't have any."

He'd looked up his family, after he found out what his name was. Parents, a sister - Rebecca.  _Becca._ He remembers them now, but it's too late. They're all dead.

"Oh, god, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed-"

He shakes his head, picks up his fork again. "It's fine."

"Celebrating with friends, then?"

He stares down at his food, wonders what Steve is doing right now. Who is Steve going to spend Thanksgiving with?

"No." He shakes his head to clear the image of Steve alone, takes a breath. "No."

Ellen just nods, and they don't talk about it again. He likes Ellen. She seems to get him, the way many of the others don't. He supposes it's because she thinks she knows his background, the war. He's taken her advice, and applies his coping methods daily. He's taking care of himself. He's more than surviving, he's living. He still has bad days, but there are good days too. He's starting to relax into his new life, fearing less and less that Hydra is around every corner. He checks the news obsessively, and it looks like the Avengers are taking out bases in Europe. Hydra is hopefully too busy to search for him. Hopefully.

A parent-teacher conference rolls around, and Bucky has to stand in his classroom as a line of parents talk to him about their children. Kate's parents are obscenely rich and also assholes, America's parents don't show up, and Peter Parker's aunt and uncle are sweet and supportive. 

"Peter absolutely loves your class," May Parker says, smiling widely. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

He's flattered by the number of kind comments he gets, and annoyed by the parents who take up all his time to discuss their problematic children.  _No, Ms. Halstead,_ he thinks,  _Kyle isn't a nice, hard-working young man. He's kind of an asshole, to be honest, and I see where he got it from. No, I can't bump his grade up._

It's late by the time he gets to leave, the sky already dark. The mid-November chill worms its way around the collar of his wool coat, making him shiver and walk faster. The cold makes the seam of his metal shoulder ache, spreading into his back and chest. It takes twenty minutes of yoga in the relative warmth of his apartment to loosen the muscles again, his left side feeling heavier than ever. He curls up in the fleece blankets he'd bought and drifts off, cocooned in warmth. 

He buys an assortment of scarves that weekend, along with hats and more gloves. The fuzzy socks stop him in his tracks, and he ends up buying ten pairs. When he wears the scarves to school, he gets more comments about being a hipster, the students now directing their comments to his face instead of whispering behind his back. He's not sure whether it's an improvement.

"I think you look cool, Mr. B," Ned says loyally, grinning. 

"Thank you, Ned." Bucky adjusts his glasses. "Kids these days have no respect for their elders."

The class laughs. "Come on, Mr. B, what are you, thirty?"

Bucky smirks. "No, I'm..." He trails off, frowns. "I'm, um..." He was born in 1917, died in 1945, so he would've been twenty-eight. He's not sure how long he was awake over the seventy years. In the beginning, when they trained him, he was awake for longer, he thinks. Maybe a year? And then missions, awake for maybe a week or two at a time. Maybe a year again? Probably upwards of two years total then, maybe add another year that he doesn't remember. 

He swallows. "I'm, uh, thirty...no, thirty-one?"

There's a silence over the classroom. 

"Do you...not know?" Christine pipes up hesitantly. 

"No, I-I know, I just..." He clears his throat. "Anyway, so, osmosis..."

* * *

He slides into the chair next to Ellen, feeling panic claw at his insides. "I don't know how old I am," he blurts.

Ellen looks up at him, frowning. "What?"

"I don't-I don't know how old I am," he repeats desperately. He shuts his mouth with a click, berating himself. What is he doing, telling this to Ellen? He could blow his cover. He shakes his head, trying to keep his breathing even. 

"You don't know your birthday?" Ellen asks, looking thoroughly confused.

No, he'd looked that up, he knows that. "March tenth."

"What year?"

"I-" He can't tell her the real year. "I don't know."

"Amnesia?"

He nods silently. 

"Okay, well, can you look it up?"

"No." He shakes his head.

"It should be in your medical files, and on any ID you have." She's still looking at him strangely. "Pull out your wallet."

He blinks. "Don't have one."

"You have your driver's license with you?"

"Don't have one."

"You have some sort of ID, documents. You just have to find it. It'll be on there," she says soothingly.

She just thinks he's having some sort of episode, he realizes. She thinks he's forgotten it  _now,_ and panicking, and he can just look it up again. But he  _can't._ Without going through Hydra's records and figuring out exactly how long he was awake, he'll never know how old he is.

"No," he says, frustrated. "No, you-" He stands up abruptly. "I  _don't know how old I am._ I was twenty-eight when...when I fell, but I don't know  _how long,_ they-" He exhales, runs a hand through his unraveling hair. Pulls himself back together. "Never mind," he says. "Just-forget it." He turns and walks out the door before he loses his composure.

 _I don't know how old I am,_ he writes in his journal that night.  _Hydra stole my whole fucking life, and I don't even know how old I am._

* * *

He spends Thanksgiving eating store-bought mashed potatoes and surfing the internet. The long break threatens to drive him insane, hours with nothing to do but circle his own mind around the drain, but he pulls out all the stops on his internet-gleaned coping methods and manages to weather it with little incident except one panic attack and the installation of three new locks on his door. The panic attack is triggered by the shower of all things, as his brain decides to helpfully gift him with the memory of being waterboarded. It's a new complication, as he quite enjoys showers. Following internet advice to face his fears, he sticks his head under the tap and practices breathing exercises until he doesn't feel like dying. He rewards himself with apple pie. After that, the shower is manageable.

The pie makes him think of his mother, hands dusted with flour and apron tied around her waist, a sparkle in her eyes. The memories come fragmented but clear, full of light and warmth. The sound of Becca's laughter. His father's booming voice. His mother's hand on her hip, the other brandishing a wooden spoon. Scraped knees and hair ribbons and meat pies in grubby fingers, a warm hand against his forehead and a soft voice singing him to sleep. Admonishments and soothing words. Love. Family.  _Home._

Alone in his darkened apartment, Bucky weeps for everything he has lost.

* * *

Bucky dusts snow out of his hair as he walks into school, scowling in displeasure. He thinks he used to be a fan of snow, until he fell into an icy ravine and lost an arm and then was periodically frozen like a slab of meat. Now it's kind of ruined for him. He pushes open the door to the break room, nodding hello to the few teachers there as he stows his lunch in the fridge. 

"I always love this unit," Ellen is saying, "but it's going to be weird this year, with everything that happened in DC."

Bucky stiffens, turning slowly. "What about DC?" he asks casually. 

"Oh, I'm starting the World War Two unit with my intro class," Ellen explains. "So usually I talk about how Captain America and the Howling Commandos fought Hydra, how he flew the Valkyrie into the ice to finally defeat them. But apparently they weren't actually defeated, so..." She makes a helpless gesture. "There's going to be a lot of questions."

"Right." Bucky swallows. "What are you going to tell them?"

"I'm not sure. The problem is, no one knows exactly what happened. All the SHIELD files were dumped on the internet, but people are still sifting through those, and there's a lot still unanswered. I mean, how did Hydra go undetected? What exactly are they responsible for over the years?"

"A lot," Bucky says grimly. "They shaped the century. Assassinations, infiltration of the government, experimentation and weapons development, international policies, sabotage, information acquisition and control. Anything you can think of, they were there. They had a hand in everything."

"You some kind of expert or something?" Greg jokes.

 _Yeah, I had a literal hand in some of those things,_ Bucky thinks. He stares at Greg, then blinks, makes himself shrug loosely. "I read the files."

Carl leans a hip against the table, taking a sip of coffee. "What else did the files say?"

"About what?"

"You know, anything."

Bucky shrugs again, anxiety crawling on his skin. "Hydra is evil, they've done a lot of terrible shit, the government let it happen because they wanted scientists and didn't care if they were Nazi psychopaths who liked to experiment on people. Alexander Pierce should have died slower." He grabs his coffee cup, turning away. "I hope the Avengers hunt down every last fucking one."

* * *

He wakes huddled in his bathtub, freezing water pouring over his head. He turns the water off and stumbles out, teeth chattering, mind humming with panic. Strips out of his clothes, dries off hastily. Makes it to the bedroom, diving into his bed and wrapping himself in blankets, body wracked with shivers. He squeezes his eyes shut, curling tighter into himself, and thinks of cold nights on the Western front, Steve pressed against him as the wind howled. The warmth of Steve along his back, legs tangled together, an arm holding him secure. He suddenly wishes Steve were here, yearns for the safety of his arms. He draws the blankets around him tighter instead, feeling impossibly small and alone. 

When he finally drags himself out of bed for work, he pulls on a thick sweater over a long-sleeved shirt, looping a scarf around his neck and tugging a knit hat over his unruly hair. He leaves the scarf on when he gets to school, retying his hair in a bun and enduring the teasing comments about his appearance. He reheats his coffee in the microwave and sits with his hands cupped around it, the occasional shiver working its way up his spine. The seam of his metal arm aches and he rubs at it, rolling the joint and wincing at the twinges of pain. 

"I have one of those rice bags," Ellen says, barely looking up from her tea. "Best investment ever."

Bucky frowns. "Rice bags?"

"Yeah, like those bags you can get filled with rice or corn. Just pop them in the microwave and they're all nice and toasty. I use it on my back."

Bucky feels himself perk up. "Where can I get one?"

That night, he pops his new rice bag into his new tiny microwave and waits. When it comes out, it's hot and wonderful, and he drapes it over his shoulder as he sits in bed, writing in his various journals. 

 _Rice bags,_ he writes in his Future Journal.  _Absolutely amazing. 10/10 would recommend._

 _I have trouble with the cold,_ he writes in his Recovery Journal.  _Dreams of cryo and the snow. Cannot get warm._

The rice bag helps, and he sleeps relatively well, waking up at five a.m. to write down his newest dream and doing yoga inside as snow falls past his papered windows. He walks the familiar route to school, snow crunching under his boots and breath fogging in the air, steam wafting from his red Starbucks cup.  _James_ is written on the side in sharpie, like always, and the little reminder makes him smile. He tilts his head up towards the sky, opening his mouth to let a snowflake land on his tongue. A giggle escapes, and he suddenly can't remember the last time he laughed. He thinks this is the first time he's laughed in seventy years. 

* * *

Peter is wearing an absolutely ridiculous sweater, a red and green monstrosity with small studded lights embedded into it. 

"What. Is  _that,"_ he says when Peter walks in, looking too cheery for such a ghastly sight. 

Peter grins. "You like it?"

"It looks like Christmas threw up on you."

Peter grins wider. "That's the point. It's an ugly Christmas sweater. It's Christmas first."

"Christmas first?"

"December first. Officially time to start Christmas everything."

"Sure," Bucky replies dubiously, still eyeing the garish sweater. How is one meant to escape notice in a sweater like that? Although, maybe that's the point. 

"You celebrate Christmas?" Peter asks, sliding into his seat. 

Bucky blinks, trying to think. He does remember Christmas, a tree with twinkling lights, him and Becca squabbling over presents. Steve is there, in his memories, and Steve's ma, too, her warm smile. But there are also memories of candles in the window, his mother murmuring Hebrew. Both, he thinks. They celebrated both.

"Yeah," he says finally. "And Hanukkah."

"Cool," Peter says. "Me too. Okay, so I have a question about the reading. I know, like, traits can be inherited from parents, like eye and hair color, but what about, like, weird traits?"

Bucky leans on Peter's lab table, pushing his glasses up his nose. Students are filing in and taking their seats, chattering amiably. "Weird how?"

"Well, what if your genes were changed? Like, Captain America. If he had children, would they inherit the serum?"

Bucky frowns. "I'm not sure." The thought of Steve having children is terrifying. One Steve Rogers is enough for the world, he thinks. "If the serum actually changed his genetic makeup, and they were inheritable traits, then maybe. But if it just enhanced him, then no."

"What if you cloned him? Would his clone have the serum?"

"Uh, probably." Bucky taps a finger on his chin, intrigued despite himself. "The serum has regenerative capabilities. Cell metabolism is extremely fast. He'd actually probably be a good candidate for cloning. Though no one should ever try to clone him." He gives Peter a hard look. "Human experimentation is  _bad."_

"I know. Just, like, what if. Wouldn't two Captain Americas be cool?"

Bucky grimaces, straightening up as the class starts to settle and Ned slides in next to Peter. "Kid, you have no idea what you're talking about. Two Steve Rogers would be the  _opposite_ of cool. The world would spontaneously combust."

"I thought you liked Captain America?" Peter calls after him as he strolls to the front of the classroom.

He raises an eyebrow. "Never said I didn't."

* * *

Bucky looks down at the paper in his hand, artfully covered with images of snow. "A holiday party?"

Carl nods. "Yep. We do this every year. It's always a fun time. You should come."

Bucky folds the paper, shoving it in his pocket. "Yeah, alright." He'll think about it, at least.

The invitation states the party as occurring December 20, at Carl's house in a nice suburb. Apparently, it rotates. It's a chance for all the teachers to get together, have a few drinks, talk about the semester. Bucky knows he should go, but first he has to figure out how to get there. He doesn't have a car, or any transportation besides walking. 

"Are you going to the party?" Ellen asks at lunch, as Bucky reheats his coffee. 

He shrugs, knowing he can tell her the truth. "I'll think about it. Have to figure out how to get there - I don't have a car."

"Cab?"

He shakes his head. "Can't get in a car with a stranger."

"Where do you live?"

He hesitates, paranoia rearing its head.  _What if she's Hydra, what if she's going to turn you in-_

He pushes the thoughts away. Ellen is his friend. He has to start trusting people at some point.

"Bout a mile that way." He points in the direction of his apartment. There, it's not an exact address. His paranoia is appeased.

"I can pick you up. It's on the way."

"Are you sure?"

Ellen smiles. "Positive."

Bucky chews his lip and then nods. "Thank you."

"Of course. You'll have a great time, I know it. The ugly sweater competition is always the best."

Bucky had seen that on the invitation, but he's not sure what that means. "What is that?"

"Oh, everyone buys the ugliest or craziest Christmas sweaters they can buy, we vote for a winner every year."

"Huh." His mind flashes to Peter's horrid sweater, and he gets an idea.

He corners Peter during lab that day, lowering his voice. 

"Hey. Where did you get your ugly Christmas sweater?"

Peter grins, giving him a sly look. "Mr. B., are you thinking of getting one?"

"Maybe. Just tell me where."

"Alright, alright. I mean, you can get a lot of more expensive ones online if you search, but honestly I've found the best ones at Goodwill for like, a dollar."

Bucky straightens up, nodding. "Thanks."

"Are you going to wear it to class?"

"No."

Peter pouts. "Can you take a picture at least?"

Bucky raises an eyebrow, turning away. "Absolutely not."

"Please?"

"Back to work, Parker!"

* * *

"Fucking dyke."

Bucky steps out of his classroom just in time to see Kate's face flush an ugly red as she launches herself forwards, fist drawn back. He slides in front of her, catching her fist with his hand. It's a pretty strong punch, for an untrained teenager, but his hand barely moves with the impact. She blinks in shock, the gathering of students gaping openly at him. 

Bucky gives her a pointed look to stay still and turns around, coming face to face with the startled face of her attacker. He's medium height, with a smattering of acne on his sallow cheeks and dark hair more messy than artful. 

"What did you call her?" Bucky asks, voice low and dangerous. He sees a flicker of apprehension in the boy's eyes, knows he's feeling the primal terror the Winter Soldier elicits even if he doesn't know why. 

The boy huffs defensively. "Come on, it was just a joke. She's just being sensitive."

Bucky takes a step towards him, making him shrink back. "That's not what it sounded like to me. I don't tolerate slurs, so I suggest you apologize to Kate, or face the consequences."

The boy shifts, gulps, and then finally nods. "Sorry," he mumbles, looking at the ground. 

Bucky takes one more step forwards, for good measure. "If I  _ever_ hear you use language like that again, it's an immediate detention and a call to your parents. The next time, I take it straight to the principal, and you're suspended. Understood?"

The boy nods hastily, eyes wide. Bucky jerks his head. "Get outta here." He looks around at the assembled crowd. "Show's over, folks. Go on."

The students scatter, talking amongst themselves, and Kate follows Bucky into his classroom. He shuts the door and turns to her, concern replacing anger.

"Are you all right?"

Kate nods, mouth pulled into a scowl and shoulders hunched. "You should've let me punch him."

"I won't say he didn't deserve it, cause he did." Kate looks up in surprise. "But then you'd be in trouble. And you don't deserve that."

Kate seems to deflate, sinking into a chair. "Oh. Yeah. Guess you're right."

Bucky walks over and perches on the desk. "Listen, kid, don't ever let the world steal your fight. You've got a right to be angry. But you can't punch your way outta everything. Sometimes you gotta use your head instead."

Kate's mouth twitches. "So, you're saying I can headbutt them."

Bucky laughs, seeing Steve in front of him instead of Kate, that same spark in his eyes. "Really though. He's not worth it. What happened anyway?"

Kate shrugs. "He asked me out. I told him I was dating America. He said he could 'make me straight.' I told him what I thought of that, and..."

"Yeah, he really did deserve to get punched."

That draws a laugh out of Kate, and she looks up at him. "Thanks, Mr. B."

"Anytime." Looking into Kate's pale, dark-haired face reminds him of his sister, drawing out the soft side of him that's been crushed under seventy years of war. "Listen, if you ever need anything...my door's open. You and America are always welcome in here. And if you need me to get that kid suspended, I can do that too."

"Thank you." Kate smiles. "I'm really glad you came here, Mr. B. I hope you stay."

 _So do I,_ Bucky thinks.  _So do I._

* * *

Bucky rifles through the rack of sweaters, scanning the store periodically from under the brim of his hat. He looks at the next one on the rack and his heart skips a beat.

It's Steve's shield, set on a dark blue knit with white snowflakes and red designs. Small white Christmas trees march across the bottom. It's not even ugly, but Bucky doesn't care. He has to have it.

He brings it to the counter, forking over a few bills and heading out into the frosty air, making a couple loops around the block before he's satisfied no one is following him. He wonders what Steve is doing for Christmas. Probably spending it with the Avengers, maybe the man with the wings and the Black Widow. But neither of them have family left, or each other. They had always spent Christmases together since they were children, as far back as Bucky can remember. And then, during the war, they were together for Christmas, the fighting paused for a day. This, Bucky thinks, is his first real Christmas without Steve.

How easy it would be, though, to find Steve, to be together for Christmas. It's tempting, so tempting, but it cannot happen. Even if they did get Christmas, managed to escape from the forces against them, it wouldn't be the same. Bucky doesn't remember half their Christmases, half their traditions, is only half the man Steve remembers. It wouldn't be a real Christmas, the way Bucky remembers distantly. The way he yearns for, with lights and laughter and sticky kisses beneath pilfered mistletoe. 

He hangs the sweater carefully in his closet, smoothing a hand over the knitted shield and feeling the weight of distance and grief and guilt, mingled with hopeless longing. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers into his barren apartment, as Christmas music filters from beyond his wall. Outside, snow blankets the earth. 

* * *

On the night of December 16, Bucky lights the first candle on the old menorah he'd managed to acquire. It won't be visible through the papered windows, the way it's supposed to be, but the ritual settles something inside him. He tries to make latkes the way he remembers his ma doing, and manages some decent ones, buying both applesauce and sour cream to put on them. He's still undecided which is better, though he thinks younger Bucky had a preference for sour cream. 

The latkes seem to trigger an obsession with cooking and baking, and Bucky ends up trying different recipes he finds online. The chocolate chip cookies he makes turn out the best, and he saves a batch to take with him to the holiday party. 

On December 20, he dons the Captain America sweater, hair down but silky and soft, strands just brushing his shoulders. He slides his glasses on, wraps a scarf around his throat, and pulls his coat on, grabbing the tin of cookies and waiting on the sidewalk near his apartment complex until Ellen pulls up. He slides into the front seat, shivering as the warmth of the car chases away the chill, setting the cookies on his lap. 

"Ooh, what'd you bring?" Ellen asks, looking at the box. 

"Cookies. I baked them myself," he admits. "I've been learning to bake." He feels a sliver of pride at his accomplishment, something no one else had helped him with or told him to do, something that isn't even from his past.  _This_ Bucky Barnes bakes. It is his, and no one else's. 

"That's great." Ellen pulls away from the curb. "My husband does all the cooking, and he loves to bake. Me, I just like to eat what he makes."

Bucky chuckles, ducking his head. "My, uh, my ma was a great cook. I tried to make her latkes, but they didn't turn out as well."

Ellen cocks her head. "Are you Jewish?"

"Yeah." Bucky fiddles with his gloves. "On my mother's side. My dad was Protestant. Did both of everything. So, Hanukkah and Christmas."

"That must have been interesting. You know, I've noticed you have a bit of an accent sometimes. Not Queens." She glances over. "Brooklyn, maybe?"

"Yeah. Been a while since I've been there, though. I don't think I'd even recognize it now."

"You might be surprised. Home is home, you know?"

"Yeah." He stares out the window, watching the buildings rush past. They're unfamiliar, like everything in this new world, but familiar at the same time. Bricks, concrete, people. The recipe is the same, though the result may vary. Maybe home isn't a place, he thinks, but people. 

His mind drifts to Steve. 

A person, maybe.

Soon they're pulling up outside Carl's house, a nice two-story suburban home with wreaths in the windows. Ellen parks the car in the crowded driveway and they head in, the door opening at the bell to reveal Carl in a bright red sweater with a large green Christmas tree adorning the front.

"Merry Christmas! Glad you could make it." He ushers them in, directing them to hang up their coats in the hall and follow him into the living room. Bucky's cookies are whisked away to the kitchen by Carl's wife, who tells him she's  _heard so much about him_ and she's  _so glad to finally meet him,_ following by an exclamation over his sweater. 

"I love it. Big Captain America fan?"

Bucky smiles wanly. "Something like that."

The living room is already full of teachers, standing around chatting with drinks in their hands. Bucky gazes in wonder at the high ceilings, the gas fireplace, the large Christmas tree taking precedence in the corner. It's beautiful, and far bigger than any house he's been in. The floors are polished wood, a soft rug laid overtop, couches and chairs strategically placed. The opulence astounds him, though he supposes this is normal these days. He's used to a modest Brooklyn home and now, a matchbox apartment. The only extravagant homes he remembers are those of his victims, and he certainly never took the time to appreciate them. He doesn't want to count them, anyway. 

"Your home is beautiful," he tells Carl truthfully, accepting a beer from him. 

"Thank you. We put a lot of work into it. Mortgage nearly killed us, luckily Susan has a good job. Don't need to tell you how little teachers make."

Bucky nods understandingly. From what he understands, teachers' salaries are criminally low. He doesn't need his, of course, has thousands in stolen Hydra money, but he grew up during the Great Depression, and can understand not having money even if they were better off than most. His salaries now go into a bank account he'd opened for the purpose, untraceable to him. His forged identity is solid, if no one looks beneath the surface.

He takes a sip of his beer, finding it not preferable but palatable. Alcohol doesn't affect him anyway. He mingles to the best of his ability, the amount of people making his anxiety bubble and the lack of known sight lines and defensible positions causing his gaze to perpetually flicker around, constantly cataloguing threats. He doesn't know the layout of the house, doesn't know what the best escape route would be. It's exhausting.

Maria Reyes catches his eye, draws him into the conversation.

"James and I kept crossing paths at the laundromat for a couple weeks," she laughs, fingers curled around her wineglass. "He walked me to my car a few times." She glances over at Bucky. "Thanks for that, by the way."

Bucky returns her smile, shifts uncomfortably. "You're welcome. Bit of a rough neighborhood."

"Hey, it's got its charm." 

The people Maria's talking to turn out to be the band and orchestra directors, a sharp-featured woman named Nancy in her fifties and a short-haired, heavyset woman named Trish in her thirties. The conversation drifts to music, and Maria's talking about her choir students and the musical the school just put on, something light and cheesy. 

"Any musical knowledge?" Maria asks, courteously including him in the conversation. 

Bucky adjust his glasses, pulling on strands on memory. "I used to love music." Swirling music, shoes scuffing on the floor, laughter. "I was a good dancer." He also remembers his mother's hands on his, bodies pressed together on a narrow bench, her lilting voice in his ear. "Played piano, too, but I don't know if I was any good at it."

"I'm sure you were better than you think," Maria says. "How long did you play for?"

"Not sure," Bucky admits. He gives a self-deprecating smile, taps his head. "Amnesia."

"Really?" Nancy asks. "That's awful."

Bucky shrugs. "It's getting better. I remember most things now. Others are just jumbled."

"I've heard muscle memory is still there even with amnesia. Come on." Maria nudges him towards the upright sitting along one wall. "Play something. It's tradition to play something on Carl's piano."

"I don't know..." Bucky flexes his metal hand. "My left hand isn't, um, so good," he says lowly. 

"Not a problem." Maria sits down on the bench and pats the seat to her right, flicking through the sheet music. Bucky slides in next to her, regarding it dubiously, and the others gather around. "You do the right hand, I'll do the left," Maria says. "You know how to read music?"

He squints at the music, the shapes suddenly making perfect sense. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do."

"Try the first line."

Bucky reads the notes, right hand hovering hesitantly over the keys before he begins to play. It's a simple melody, the lyrics written underneath. Some kind of Christmas song, slow and pretty. His fingers press into the smooth ivory, notes filling the air softly, and he finds his wrist lifting, hand relaxing as something slots into place. His muscles know this, even if he doesn't. 

As he grows more confident, Maria joins in, adding embellishments not written in the music. The chatter in the room fades, and Bucky feels eyes on him, but it's a comfortable weight. Maria's body is nearly pressed against his left side, so close to his metal arm, but for once the contact is welcome. She starts to sing, voice soft and melodic, and Bucky has to blink away tears at the memory of his mother doing the same, Becca squealing in delight as their father twirled her. 

The song ends to light applause, and Maria flips to another one, looking askance at Bucky. "Told you it'd come back."

He smiles, a real one, and they start the next song, a cheerful, bouncy one about a snowman that has the whole room joining in on the chorus. Bucky laughs, feeling his eyes crinkle and nose scrunch up, the kind of laugh he did not know he could still do. It is the kind of laugh he knows from a grainy film clip in a museum, Steve's blinding smile beside him. 

After they at last have run out of songs, after they have bowed to applause and retreated to the kitchen to grab more drinks, Bucky leans close to Maria and says quietly, "Thank you."

Maria just looks at him and nods, understanding in her eyes. Then she stretches up on her toes and kisses him on the cheek, the barest brush of her lips. Bucky blinks in surprise, and Maria disappears into the crowd, leaving him reeling. It is the first time someone has touched him like that since before Hydra, he thinks suddenly. With gentleness. 

He drains his beer and grabs another one, feeling off-balance. Greg comes up, congratulating him on his performance, and Bucky quickly gathers himself, pasting on a smile. 

The night passes quickly, with games and the announcing of the ugly sweater competition winner. It's Karen, as it turns out, with a fuzzy monstrosity that has strings of lights twinkling on it, and she gets a red pen as her prize. A running joke, it seems. The pen is coveted. 

Karen still flirts with him, but they manage to have a passable conversation, and find commonality in their love of math. Bucky knows he's always loved math, been good at it, knows that's what made him a good sniper. He carried a notepad around with him during the war to calculate shots. He wishes his love of math wasn't tied to killing, but it seems he can't escape that part of him. He made the calculations for Steve's shield, too, he remembers vaguely. They figured out how to throw it together, Bucky making the calculations and Steve throwing over and over again until he got it right, the angles and the speed, the curve of his throw. 

"Everyone says I'm crazy for loving math," Karen says, obviously tipsy and sidling closer to him every minute. "But it's just so....great, you know? I feel like you understand."

"Mmhm." Bucky shifts back as she comes closer, the role reversal from predator to prey in the face of a tiny blonde woman with no training bewildering. He slips out from between her and the wall, searching for an escape route. "Listen, I'm going to go get a drink. I'll get you a water."

He flees to the kitchen, getting a glass of water and bringing it out to Karen. Karen pouts as she accepts it. "You're so sweet."

Bucky shifts uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. Suddenly Karen sighs, slumping back against the wall and looking up at him.

"This isn't working, is it?"

"Um."

"You're obviously not interested. It's okay, I get it."

"I'm sorry," Bucky says genuinely. Karen seems like a nice person, and she looks so heartbroken by her revelation. 

She shakes her head. "No, I'm sorry, I've been throwing myself at you like an idiot." She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders. "Friends?"

Bucky smiles. "I'd like that." He moves to lean against the wall next to her, lowering his voice. "For the record, I'm, um. I'm gay." Saying it out loud makes it slot into place, a truth he's known all along.

"Oh. Oh!" She turns her head to look at him, relief in her eyes. "That actually makes me feel a lot better, as selfish as that is."

"It's fine." Bucky feels amusement curl in his chest. The conversation flows easily after that, only a hint of awkwardness remaining, and Bucky finds himself enjoying Karen's company. They drift, talking to other teachers, and Bucky finds himself opposite the language teachers, who have seemingly banded together. 

"We're debating the merits of learning different languages," Rosa tells him. "I say Spanish is most useful in the US, because there's so many people who speak it here. Emile says French, because Canada is so close. The school stopped teaching German a couple years ago, that's a shame."

"I stand by Latin," Carl says. "We had to learn it in school when I was a kid."

"What about you?" Emile asks. "What language did you take in school?"

"Um, Latin," Bucky says. "Already knew some Hebrew. Then I learned German and French during the war. Bunch of others later."

"How many languages do you know?"

Bucky bites his lip, unsure. Upwards of ten, he knows, but that's not normal. Hydra probably programmed them all into his head. "I don't know," he finally says. 

"Amnesia," Carl whispers to Rosa. 

"Oh, right." 

This amnesia thing is really coming in handy, he thinks. 

"Sabes Español?" Rosa asks. 

The language comes to his tongue easily, though he doesn't remember learning it. "Sí. ¿Enseñas dialecto español o mexicano?

"Español. A veces ambos. La mayoría de las personas que lo hablan aquí son de México, así que trato de enseñarles eso."

Bucky nods. "Muchos olvidan que no tenemos un idioma nacional."

"Tan verdadero. Tu acento es impecable, ¿dónde aprendiste?"

"No me acuerdo."

Rosa grimaces in sympathy. "Puede que no recuerdes, pero todavía lo sabes. Eso es un regalo."

"Soy suertudo." Bucky quirks his lips. 

Rosa chuckles. "He speaks Spanish!" she declares in English. "Quite well. I'd think you were completely fluent."

Bucky shrugs. "I just have a knack for languages, I guess."

"So Spanish, French, German, Latin, Hebrew?" Emile says, ticking them off on her fingers. "And you know even more than that? I'm impressed."

Cal speaks up. "What's another big language - oh, I know, Russian. Can you speak Russian?"

Bucky tenses, anxiety spiking. Yes, he knows Russian. Knows it better than English, sometimes. He  _was_ Russian, for decades. 

He swallows, rubs at the seam of his metal arm. "Yes."  _Ready to comply_ sits on his tongue, heavy and bitter. 

Luckily, the conversation steers away, and Bucky relaxes. The night is drawing to a close, people starting to leave, and Bucky helps collect beer bottles and wineglasses that have accumulated on every tabletop. He says his goodbyes, surprised by how many people he's talked to tonight, how many give him genuine smiles. Ellen finds him and together they head out to her car, breath fogging in the night air. The car starts and pulls away, and Bucky relaxes into his seat, suddenly bone-tired. 

"You have a good time tonight?"

He nods, finding it the truth. "Yeah. I'm glad I went."

"Good." Ellen pulls out onto the darkened street. "You and Karen seem to be getting on well."

Bucky chuckles, knowing her implications. "We're just friends." He sobers, staring out the window at the Christmas lights twinkling on houses. "I've only ever loved one person my whole life, and....well." He flexes his metal hand, feeling the plates shift. "I'm not the person he remembers."

"Maybe that's not a bad thing."

Bucky huffs a small breath. "Maybe. But he...he deserves more. Than me. And I can't...face him. Not yet. Maybe someday. I guess I've gotta figure out who I am first."

Ellen glances over at him, eyes soft. "Well, from what I've seen, it looks like you're doing a pretty good job. And you know what they say about Christmas."

"What?"

"It's the time of the year you tell the people you love the truth."

* * *

The last two days of school barely count. Christmas is days away, and the students unable to focus. Bucky passes out candy canes and doesn't give homework, and tries not to think about Steve. He goes home the day before Christmas Eve feeling more lost then ever, his apartment too big, too quiet. 

Peaches, he thinks, lying flat on his bed. Steve loved peaches. They only got them once a year in Brooklyn, and they were expensive. They'd stolen some once, when the vendor's back was turned, plucked them right out of the crate. Bucky never told Steve about the dime he'd left, sitting right on top. 

He bundles up and walks to the grocery store, buying a bag of peaches. Steve is easy enough to find, living in a modest brownstone in Brooklyn. Bucky walks there Christmas Eve, arriving late into the night. The lights are on, and when he creeps close he hears the sound of someone moving around. He carefully places the bag of peaches on the doorstep, then slips away into the darkness, picking a covered spot to observe.

Steve opens the door moments later, having heard the rustling outside as Bucky knew he would. He looks around, frowning, before his gaze drops to his feet and lands on the peaches. Something cracks in his gaze, and he picks them up carefully, staring at them. Then he looks up and around frantically, expression one of hope and disbelief.

"Bucky?" he calls softly. 

Bucky feels a tear slip down his face. Steve is bathed in the yellow porch light like some kind of angel, and he can imagine the exact shade of his eyes, wide with hope. He has never wanted to go to him so much. 

A minute passes, and Steve crumples, sitting down heavily on the steps. He starts to cry. Bucky watches, guilt gnawing at his stomach, and Steve's sobs subside. He looks up, taking a deep breath.

"Thank you," he says into the still night, no more than a whisper. "Merry Christmas, Buck."

"Merry Christmas, Steve," Bucky whispers, too quietly to be heard. He steals away before his resolve breaks, along with his heart.

* * *

Christmas morning he wakes early and goes for a run, the streets quiet and peaceful. Lights flicker on as he goes past, children waking tired parents with excited squeals, families eating breakfast together. He runs until the emptiness inside him lessens, and then goes back to his apartment, doing yoga and writing in his journals. He makes breakfast and coffee, eats as he watches cat videos on YouTube. Showers. Reads Harry Potter. Curls up in his blankets. Naps. Eats. Writes. Repeats.

School is out until January fifth, a week and a half away. Bucky has no idea what to do with the time. He's gotten so used to the routine of school that the change is destabilizing. What had he done those first few months after the Helicarriers? Run, he remembers. Run, and hide, and shake his way through withdrawal, learn to eat again, make it to New York. Survive. 

Now that he has basic function down, a place to hide out, he desperately needs a mission. Something to keep him from spiraling. 

The internet says pets are good for keeping busy. A dog would be best, but they need to be licensed, and Bucky is leery of that much exposure. Besides, he works long hours sometimes. No, a cat would be better.

He finds himself at the shelter, staring at the rows of cages. They're all cute and fluffy, sniffing his hand through the bars. As he moves on, a white cat in the next cage hisses and spits at him, blue eyes furious. Bucky checks the tags on the cage:  _Alpine. Female. 3 years old. Spayed. Needs a quiet home. No children._

"That one," he says to the employee. "I want her."

The employee gives him a dubious look, but nods. Soon, Bucky is leaving with Alpine growling softly in a carrier, huddled against the back. He's already bought all the necessary things, including a litter box, cat food, and a bed, and he locks his door securely before opening the carrier and stepping back. Alpine shoots out, disappearing down the hallway, and Bucky doesn't bother to look for her. He knows what it feels like, to be trapped, terrified, at the mercy of unfamiliar people. He recognizes himself in Alpine's blue eyes. 

She avoids him for two days, though the food he leaves out is eaten by morning. It's hard to hide in his apartment, no space under his bed or furniture in his living room, but she makes a point to be in the far opposite room from him. He doesn't mind. It's nice, having someone else here. If she never lets him touch her, that's okay. She deserves her autonomy. 

A neighbor gets rid of an old armchair, tossing it in front of the apartment complex for free, and Bucky takes it. He puts it in his barren living room, and an hour later Alpine is curled on it, snoozing in the faint patch of sunlight managing to break through the newspaper over the window. Bucky makes a decision, and tears the newspaper away from the top panes, replacing it with heavy curtains. He leaves them open in the day, and Alpine basks in the sunlight, white fur gleaming. It opens him up to sniper fire, but only in a slim margin of space, and he's extra cautious when crossing in front of the windows. 

He has a bad day halfway through the week, staying curled in his bed as his head whirls and pounds. Time passes in odd jumps, his mind fragmented and full of confusion. Memories of Hydra flash before his eyes, pain and blood and screams. 

There's a dip in the bed, and then soft fur against his bare arm. Alpine settles against his chest, purring loudly. Bucky stays still, afraid to hurt her in his unstable state, afraid to crush her small body with the gleaming silver arm. But gradually, her purrs lull him into a peaceful sleep, and he curls around her, face pressed into her fur. He wakes feeling drained but himself again, and chances stroking a hand over her head. She yawns and twists onto her back, soft belly inviting. He rubs it and immediately is attacked with teeth and claws, small pinpricks of pain. A laugh bubbles up.

After that, she doesn't leave his side. She winds around his legs as he does yoga in the morning, curls up on his lap as he reads. He wakes from a nightmare to a soft meow and a thump on the bed, a rough tongue scraping over his hand. 

Bucky goes out and buys a real phone instead of the burner he'd gotten for his job. It has a camera, and after figuring out how to use it he takes pictures of Alpine from every angle, filling up rows and rows in the camera roll. The thought of having these pictures to look back on, memories tangible in his hands, is freeing. He starts taking pictures of things he wants to remember - a fresh patch of snow remarkably untarnished, a patch of sun on his floor, cookies he'd made himself. He's careful not to photograph any identifying places, or himself, in case the phone is hacked, but he takes joy in flipping through the photos and transporting himself back to when it was taken, a tiny spot of happiness. 

The New Year comes, and Bucky writes down his resolutions.

_Be Bucky_

_Get more memories back_

_Get kids a 5 on the AP Exam_

_Live_

~~_See Steve_ ~~

He crosses the last one out. There's no use thinking about it.

As midnight approaches, he climbs onto the roof of the complex, looking out over the city. Stars twinkle distantly beyond the haze of light pollution, moon shining down brightly. The city is lit up, a beehive of activity, people laughing and drinking together for the new year. The clock strikes twelve and fireworks burst into the sky in vibrant color, the  _crack-boom_ making Bucky twitch. He lies on his back on the rooftop, staring up at the trails of color, and it feels like a fresh start. A new year, a new Bucky. No Hydra, not even Steve to lean on. For the first time in his life, he is completely his own person. 

"Happy New Year," he whispers to himself, words lost to the night.

* * *

Soon enough, school is rolling around again, the last month of the semester. Bucky walks to school with a spring in his step, white hairs still sticking to his slacks. He greets the other teachers when he arrives, asking about their holidays, about their children. Ellen's told him about her kids, all grown now, and he knows she had a lot of family coming home for Christmas. 

"You look happy," she comments. "Have a good break?"

"Yeah." Bucky smiles, pulling out his phone. "Got a cat." He opens the camera roll to show her the photos of Alpine.

"Oh, she's adorable! What's her name?"

"Alpine." The news has drawn a few more people over, and they all crowd around Bucky's phone, exclaiming over his cat. He preens internally. 

He's happy to see his class again, has missed them if he's honest with himself. Even the ones he doesn't like. AP Bio is much the same, the course continuing into the next semester. He doesn't have to worry about them. His intro class, however, will be ending this semester, a brand new one starting next semester. They're on their last two units, before they wrap up and review for the final. 

Michelle continues to stare at and draw Peter, Peter and Ned continue to be oblivious. Peter and Ned bombard Bucky with questions, and Michelle judges him silently. America and Kate continue to be enigmas. All is normal. 

It's a Friday when the news breaks. Bucky does his morning yoga with Alpine and showers, opening his laptop as he eats his breakfast. The headline scrolls across every news outlet, making nausea surge in his gut. 

_Winter Soldier Identified as Howling Commando James Buchanan Barnes_

There's pictures, black and white, of his face, young in his uniform. Him, smiling next to the Commandos. Next to Steve. 

There's pictures of the Winter Soldier, grainy and blurred, fighting on the causeway in DC. More from the data dump, indistinct images of him, the metal arm. 

There's pictures of him on the operating table, arm a bloody stump. Pictures with needles in his arms, straps holding him down. His face, smooth in sleep behind the window of the cryo tank. Notes on their experiments, their progress. A link to his Russian file, just now decrypted and unearthed from the data dump. He reads the highlights, scanned paper and spidery Russian handwriting. There's a transcript converting it to English, but he doesn't need it.

_February 1945. Subject No. 017: Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant, US Army. 32557038._

_Subject shows signs of enhancement, having survived fall into frozen ravine. Recommend further investigation and experimentation to determine exact nature and replicability. Inform SSR and Captain Rogers of subject's death._

_March 1945. Subject successfully revived and stabilized. Experimentation underway [see notes p. 1-3]._

_May 1945. Subject shows high levels of combativeness, even after punitive measures. Five soldiers deceased. Unable to replicate serum. Recommend stasis until further measures can be taken [see stasis chamber, p. 4]._

_June 1954. Notes per Arnim Zola, lead scientist: Inability to replicate serum in other subjects leaves subject 017 the only option for a supersoldier. Subject displays exceptional enhancements of strength and healing. Other enhancements unknown due to noncompliance of subject. Severing of left arm mid-humerus due to fall presents problem. A technologically superior prosthetic must be developed if the subject is to be used. Dr. Fennhoff's services will be invaluable in generating compliance with Hydra and Russia's goals._

_July 1954. Metal prosthetic developed [see p. 5]. Subject awakened from stasis. Left arm amputated at shoulder to accommodate prosthetic. Prosthetic attached successfully, but subject violent when conscious. Attempted escape. Subject put back in stasis until mind control is developed._

_May 1955. Subject awakened from stasis and Fennhoff's methods applied to induce state of compliance. Subject successfully started training. Balance affected by prosthetic._   _Fracture of bones and tearing of prosthetic from shoulder resulted in reinforcing of subject's skeleton - vertebrae, scapula, clavicle, and ribs 1-3 [see p. 6]. Subject appears to be in significant pain._

_June 1955. Subject broke from Fennhoff's control. Ten soldiers deceased. Attempt to control mind again. Introduce conditioning._

_August 1955. Subject continues to resist conditioning and control. Fennhoff attempting new methods._

_September 1955. Subject continues to break control after a few hours. Noncompliant and combative. Rapidly endangering personnel. Suggest stasis until more effective method is developed._

_April 1956. Subject awakened from stasis. Electroshock treatment administered to suppress prior memories [see p. 7]. Subject emerged confused and disoriented. Dr. Fennhoff developing programming related to cue words [p. 8]. First trial is a success._

_May 1956. Subject has successfully been programmed with the Russian language and false memories. Displays exceptional fighting abilities and intelligence. Training resumed._

_June 1956. Treatment seems to wear off quickly. Subject regained memories and became combative. Measures taken to ensure safety. Electroshock treatment administered again, and more programming implemented. False memories adjusted. Subject seemed disoriented at first but amenable._

_July 1956. Electroshock administered again after relapse. Sensory deprivation used to increase compliance and malleability of mind. Subject shows great strides in training. More languages programmed, current knowledge updated._

_September 1956. Subject completed baseline tests successfully. Recommend continuation of electroshock and sensory deprivation treatments alongside programming._

_January 1957. Subject exhibited noncompliance and combative behavior after further testing. Programming improved and electroshock targeted more successfully [see p. 9]._

_April 1958. Subject put in stasis until next mission to preserve longevity._

_March 1959. Subject given to control of KGB. Awakened from stasis and treatment administered. Mental implantation achieved, programming updated to reflect position. Subject believes himself to be KGB agent. Completed first field test successfully. Resumed training within Russian forces._

_September 1959. Subject given codename: Winter Soldier. Put in stasis until next mission._

_May 5, 1961. Winter Soldier completed mission successfully._

_November 22, 1963. Winter Soldier successfully completed first mission on American soil. Returned to stasis._

He skims the next years, nothing but lists of mission reports and updated programming to fit the times. Collaboration with the Red Room.  _The Widows._

_March 1975. Winter Soldier failed to report to exfil. Found in Brooklyn, NY. When questioned, the Soldier could not explain his actions. Confused and disoriented. Electroshock treatment administered. Reassigned to General Aleksander Lukin as personal bodyguard until problem with programming can be corrected._

_January 1976. Winter Soldier's behavior continues to degrade. Unstable and erratic. Electroshock treatments altered - new designation: wipes - and trigger words implemented in programming [see handling book]. Wipes to occur on weekly basis when soldier is out of stasis._

More missions, more wipes. 

_December 16, 1991. Attempt to recreate supersoldier serum failed. Subjects became violent and were put into stasis. Winter Soldier remains valuable operative._

_December 25, 1991._   _USSR dissolved. Winter Soldier - new designation: the Asset - transferred to Alexander Pierce in American branch._

The Russian file ends there. There's more pictures attached - schematics of the arm, him cut open on the operating table as they put it in, the chair and its schematics, him in it, face a rictus of pain. He swallows down nausea. There's another file, a digital Hydra one, and Bucky clicks on it, needing desperately to know.

_January, 1992. The Asset awakened from stasis. Confused and disoriented. Russians appear to have withheld crucial trigger words to activate his programming. Multiple wipes were given to achieve compliance, and the asset showed signs of cognitive damage. The asset completed the mission successfully, but became distressed and violent. Returned to stasis until solution found._

_April, 1994. The Asset awakened from stasis and wiped. Drug regimen started to offset effects of wipe and maintain compliance. See list below:_

_Methamphetamine_

_Methylphenidate_

_Caffeine_

_Haloperidol_

_Phenobarbital_

_Morphine_

_Nandrolone_

_Benzodiazepine_

_Almotriptan_

_Divalproex sodium_

_Atenolol_

_Amitriptyline_

_The Asset switched to intravenous nutrition. Drug interactions appear to be mitigated by serum. Asset stable. Updated with modern information, selectively withheld to reduce chance of independent functionality. Completed mission successfully and returned to stasis._

Missions, more missions. The Asset behaving erratically at times. The increasing push to get rid of him.

 _May, 2014._   _The Asset activated on final mission before termination once Project Insight is launched._

There's videos this time, full color and high definition. Bucky clicks on one at random. 

He's in the chair, eyes wide with panic and struggling against the cuffs. 

"Let me go!" he screams, chest heaving. "YA ne ponimayu. Pozhaluysta.  _Pozhaluysta!_ "

The chair whirs to life, paddles sparking with electricity as they lower over his head. He struggles, panics, but there's no escape, and they clamp around his head. His body goes rigid, knuckles whitening, and he starts to scream. 

Bucky watches with a strange detachment, numbness creeping in. Eventually, the screams stop, replaced with heaving breaths, and on the screen he strains against the cuffs again, visible eye wide and glazed with fear. His body trembles with aftershocks. The paddles are still tight against his head.

"Soldier?" 

His metal arm whirs, hand clenched in a fist, and rips through the restraints, grabbing the nearest technician by the throat. Immediately, agents swarm him, pinning his arm down and securing it again with magnetic cuffs. 

"Again," Pierce's voice says. 

His chest hitches in a sob. "Please," he says in English, face crumpling. "No, please-"

He stiffens, screams as the electricity jolts through him again. Bucky slams the laptop shut and lurches to his feet, making it to the bathroom just in time to lose his breakfast. He stays hunched over the toilet for some minutes, panting and shaking, trying to shut out the flashes of memory in his mind. Eventually he pushes himself to his feet, brushes his teeth, scrapes his hair into a bun. Shoves his glasses onto his face, looks in the mirror. 

He doesn't look exactly like the soldier, at least. The hair, the glasses, the beard all make his face look different. It's filled out, too, and lost its sallow, waxy hue under Hydra. He's gained weight, no longer lean, sharp lines of muscle but rounded softness. Cryofreeze had prevented him from ever gaining weight, the drugs too. They had devastated his body in the name of making him their perfect soldier, but he has reclaimed it. He is healthy, fit. He has color in his cheeks. He looks nothing like the soldier.

Except that he does. It is the same face, the same eyes. Anyone taking more than a passing glance will notice the resemblance, to the old Barnes as well as the Soldier. The glove on his left hand is a dead giveaway. Anyone would connect it to the metal arm. 

He contemplates running, packing all his things and disappearing without a trace. But he  _can't._ He has his students, counting on him. He has friends. He has Alpine, who he can't uproot just as she's settling in. If he runs, it will be immediately clear where he was. If he takes the day off, they'll know. They'll track him down from here. But if he stays....if he manages to avoid suspicion, maybe, just maybe, he can stay off the radar. Maybe he can keep his life here, wait for this to die down. It's the only option he sees. 

He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders. He can do this. 

The break room is buzzing when he gets there, everyone on their phones and discussing the news. Bucky keeps his face a mask of normalcy, going through the motions of his daily routine, heart beating wildly against his ribcage. 

"You see the news?" Carl asks. 

Bucky grunts an affirmative. Carl peers at him.

"Huh. Anyone ever tell you that you look like him?"

Bucky makes his mouth tug up slightly, emits a scoff. He's planned for this, has a backstory. "Yeah, every day of my life, pal. Apparently he's a distant relation. Great uncle or something. Everyone always said I was a dead ringer."

Just like that, everyone is appeased, accepting the story without question. And why wouldn't they? No one would expect the Winter Soldier to be teaching high school biology. They probably expect him to be dangerous, or barely functioning. Which, that's true, but he's getting better. 

"Distant relation, huh?" Karen says, mouth twisting in sympathy. "It has to be hard, learning what happened to him. I mean, he was a war hero. Everyone loved him. To find out he got turned into an assassin by Hydra...just wow. I'm in shock." She sniffs. "And what they  _did_ to him. I can't even imagine. It's horrifying. I couldn't watch the videos."

Bucky clears his throat, smiling wanly. "Yeah, you and me both."

His hand is shaking when he finally escapes the break room, allowing himself a moment to break down at his desk before he composes himself and readies for the day. He can hear his students talking about it but ignores them, focusing on the lesson. The whispering intensifies, and eventually he breaks. 

"What are you whispering about?" he demands. 

America raises her hand. "Okay, I know it's weird, but you look a  _lot_ like Bucky Barnes."

Bucky sighs. "Yeah, we're related. Listen, I know this is big news, but now's not the time for it, okay? Save it for after class."

The class murmurs their agreement, and falls silent as Bucky continues teaching. He can feel them basically vibrating with tension, though, and as soon as class is over he's swarmed with students asking how he's related to Bucky, what he thinks of the news, what it means.

"Alright, alright," he finally says, feeling his mental state fraying. "I'll say this once. Yes, I'm related. Great uncle or something. Yes, I look like him. The news sucks. Hydra is evil. The end." He raises an eyebrow. "Shoo."

The students sigh and scatter, finally leaving Bucky alone. He sinks down in his desk, takes off his glasses, puts his head in his hands. Tries not to fall apart. 

 _You're here,_ he tells himself.  _You're safe. This will blow over eventually._

It doesn't help the fact that every time he closes his eyes, he sees his own face, hears his own voice pleading as they burned him away. 

* * *

"Hey." Ellen sits down across from him. "How are you doing?"

Bucky blinks, coming back to awareness with his hands wrapped around his mug. "Hmm? Fine, why?"

"This must bring up bad memories, huh? Especially since you're related and all."

"Oh. Yeah." He ducks his head, escaping strands of hair falling into his eyes. "I'll be alright."

"I still can't believe it. You know it's implied he killed JFK?"

Bucky chokes on his coffee. "What?"

"Seriously. There's more, too. This changes  _history._ My job is about to become interesting. Just imagine when we get to the Howling Commando unit in my AP US class this spring. I'm going to have to change everything I taught about Bucky Barnes."

 "Yeah. Guess he's not a hero any more," Bucky murmurs, staring down at his hands. 

"Oh no, he absolutely was." Ellen sounds appalled, and Bucky looks up in surprise. "He's not responsible for what Hydra made him do. Good grief. The poor man was mind-controlled. Just thinking about it breaks my heart. No, I'm going to have to revise everything on his death, and include all that horrible stuff about what happened to him. This changes everything, but not who he was. He was a good man."

Bucky swallows, blinking away tears. "Yeah." His voice is rough. "Yeah, I guess he was." He bites down on his lip. "What about-what about after? Do you think he's still...is there anything left of him?"

Ellen looks thoughtful, eyes cataloguing his expression. "I don't know. No one knows what happened to him after DC. I like to think that maybe he got away from Hydra and is hiding out somewhere, undoing what they did. I heard he never stopped fighting them, right up until the end, so I think, you know, Bucky Barnes was definitely still in there somewhere. I wouldn't give up hope."

Something unfurls in his chest, hot and painful. 

"You sure you're alright, hon?" Ellen reaches across to lay a hand over his metal one, and he jerks it away. He takes a shaky breath, flashing her an apologetic smile, and stands. 

"Sorry, I should, uh, go before America and Kate burn down my classroom."

He's gone before she has time to respond, ducking into the teachers' restroom and locking himself inside as he succumbs to the swell of emotions crashing over him. 

* * *

He doesn't know how he gets through the day, in the end. Muscle memory and training move his body, shape words with his lips. He repeats his cover story to curious students and waves away their questions. When he gets back to his apartment, he locks himself in and retreats to his bedroom with his laptop, scanning the news. Alpine curls up by his feet, blissfully unaware of the way the world is crashing down around him.    

> _The Winter Soldier Revealed_
> 
> _Bucky Barnes: Villain or Victim?_
> 
> _The Winter Soldier: 70 Years of Horror_
> 
> _Discovery Shocks Nation - Hydra Agent Revealed to be James Barnes_
> 
> _Howling Commando James Barnes, The Winter Soldier_
> 
> _Bucky Barnes: Traitor? Data Dump Unearths Horrifying Discovery_
> 
> _[Trending:_
> 
> _#BuckyBarnes_
> 
> _#WinterSoldier_
> 
> _#BuckyBarnesIsAVictim]_
> 
> _@jhenry:  I don't understand how people are blaming Barnes. How do you ignore 70 years of torture and brainwashing? He's not the villain here people #BuckyBarnesisavictim_
> 
> _ @braddmw: @jhenry What torture? Show me where it says they tortured him. I'll wait._
> 
> _ @jhenry: @braddmw Literally right here??? "punitive measures," "conditioning," "electroshock treatment," "sensory deprivation." That's all literally torture??_
> 
> _ @deblyion: @jhenry @braddmw If you watch the videos, there's no way you can say it isn't torture. His screams are ringing in my ears._
> 
> _@grwhite:  Horrifying to think this has been going on under our noses. The Winter Soldier is rumored to have killed JFK. JFK! He needs to pay for his crimes #WinterSoldier _
> 
> _@ronnpres:  For all the snowflakes crying about 'oh, but he was brainwashed,' that's not an excuse. He still did all those things. He needs to be locked up #WinterSoldier_
> 
> _@ jbbuchannan: @ronnpres Uh, hello, brainwashing is definitely an excuse? They literally wiped his memories, mind-controlled him, and brainwashed him? He's not responsible for what they made him do._
> 
> _@daverrryans:  I was in DC. The Winter Soldier was fucking terrifying. I don't care who he was, he needs to be put down for all our sakes #WinterSoldier_
> 
> _ @amygenn: @daverrryans I agree. Yeah, it's sad they did that to Bucky Barnes, but it doesn't change the fact that he's a dangerous assassin now. It'd be merciful to kill him. _
> 
> _@jenmerwaters:  Everyone blaming Bucky Barnes should be ashamed of themselves. Did you guys even read the file? He fought back the whole time. They literally had to wipe his memories AND mind-control him. #BuckyBarnesIsAVictim_
> 
> _@keyyx : Is everyone seeing this? 'Electroshock treatment,' 'programming.' This shit is fucking crazy. And that list of drugs...how is he not dead?? #BuckyBarnes #WinterSoldier_
> 
> _ @kyleroxx: @keyyx I'm a biologist, and no one could be given those drugs without dying. They wouldn't even work correctly because of the interactions. Someone obviously just made that list up. It's not real. _
> 
> _ @keyyx: @kyleroxx "Biologist." You're a fucking freshman biology student at a community college. It's real, you're just an idiot who can't read. They said the serum neutralized the interactions. They probably didn't care what it did to him anyway. _
> 
> _@jamiellyn:  Oh my god. Those videos. I can't. #BuckyBarnesIsAVictim_
> 
> _ @junebugg: @jamiellyn I cried when I saw the first one and had to stop it. Haven't watched the others. Horrifying. _
> 
> _@julieccc:  Childhood ruined. #BuckyBarnes_

The files are everywhere. The pictures, linked to every article and tweet. Videos talked about, dissected. His undoing, his pain, his sins there for the world to see. People calling him a traitor, a monster, others defending him. Analyzing every line of the files, every horrifying detail. 

 _This file is going to give me nightmares,_ someone posts. 

Bucky wonders what that means for him.

* * *

He wakes screaming into a nightmare that doesn't end. He cannot separate past from present, real from unreal. Panic crashes over him in waves, drowning him. Time blurs. He finds himself huddled in the corner, a knife in his hand, not knowing how he got there. 

He stands. Pulls on black pants and a hooded sweatshirt. Guns and knives tucked underneath. Scarf wrapped around his face. Sneakers. Gloves. 

The door shuts softly behind him. The streets are dark, the moon rising overhead. He has a location in his brain, insistent. A base.

He walks for two hours. It's a low building, innocuous. He's been here before. The lock breaks under his metal hand. The inside is dim, fluorescent lights humming softly. One guard mans the desk. An arm around the neck and he slumps to the ground, unconscious.

His footsteps are silent as he moves forwards, body knowing the way. Another guard down, barely a whisper of sound.

"Sput-"

Bucky kicks him in the head, shutting him up. Shakes his head against the sudden fog. Keeps moving.

The door to storage opens with a soft crunch. He grabs a duffel, scans the shelves methodically. Tac gear, more weapons. A sleeve for the metal arm, holographic flesh. He shoves them in, zips up the duffel. Finds a security guard, digs a phone out of his pocket. Dials 911.

He leaves the way he came, slipping away into the night.

* * *

Bucky wakes with a start, sucking in a breath. The room is bright, sunlight peeking from the curtains. A warm weight on his feet indicates Alpine's presence. The dream melts away and he sighs, moving to run his hands through his hair. 

He stops, staring at his hands in horror. Blood, red and vibrant, drying against flesh and metal. Horror rises up.  _What have I done?_

He remembers a dream, breaking into a Hydra base. But in the dream, he hadn't killed anyone. 

_Dangerous. He should be put down._

_Erratic, unstable._

"Oh god," he breathes. "Oh-" He chokes, breaths coming too fast, hand shaking.  _What have I done?_

He curls over his bloodied hands, harsh sobs wrenching from his chest. He should've known it wouldn't be that easy, should've known he can't escape what he is. Now he's hurt someone again, possibly killed them, and it's all his fault- 

Something wet trickles from his nose. He licks his lips, tastes blood. Raises his arm, dabbing his nose with his sleeve. It comes away red. 

Suddenly he is laughing, tears streaming down his cheeks in giddy relief as the events of the night slot into place in his mind. 

A nosebleed. 

He'd broken into the base, that is true, but he hadn't killed anyone. He'd come back home, had a nosebleed, and went back to sleep. He hadn't snapped, hadn't finally gone insane and killed someone. His mind is his own. 

He staggers to the bathroom, cleaning off the blood and taking a shower, the hot water washing away the last of his tension. He laughs again until he cries, a hand braced on the shower wall. Maybe he is going insane. A nosebleed isn't a good sign. More brain damage, probably. A result of the half-formed trigger word the guard had uttered. But he's in control. He is not a mindless killer. Not anymore.

He pulls on fresh clothes, glancing at the duffel bag sitting on the floor but not opening it. He feeds Alpine and makes himself breakfast. Collects his bloodied bedding and makes a trip to the laundromat, even more conscious of any eyes on him. The stains don't come out, and he makes a note to buy new bedding in the future. When he returns to his apartment, he makes more food and checks the news cycle again, unable to help himself. He needs to know, to stay ahead of any developments. 

> _Winter Soldier File Continues to Rock Nation_
> 
> _Who Is Bucky Barnes? From National Hero to Feared Assassin_
> 
> _Everything You Need to Know About the Winter Soldier_
> 
> _Where Is Captain America?_
> 
> _A Cancer in the Heart of America_
> 
> _History Rewritten - Unraveling the Winter Soldier Files_

He's surprised to see that more and more people are supporting him, outnumbering those who call him a traitor and a monster. However, the sentiment remains - even if  _Bucky_ wasn't responsible for the  _Winter Soldier's_ actions, he is still the Winter Soldier now. He is still dangerous.   

> _Where is the Winter Soldier now?_ people question.  _Is he still in Hydra hands, or is he running loose? Did he go down with the Helicarriers? Should we be afraid? Where is Captain America? Are the Avengers going to do something?_
> 
> _[Trending:_
> 
> _#WinterSoldier_
> 
> _#WinterSoldierFiles_
> 
> _#BuckyBarnes_
> 
> _#BuckyBarnesIsAVictim_
> 
> _#Hydra]_
> 
> _@AmericaChavez:_   _I'll punch anyone who tries to blame Bucky Barnes #BuckyBarnesIsAVictim_
> 
> _@KateBishop : @AmericaChavez What she said #BuckyBarnesIsAVictim_  _]_

* * *

Bucky strokes a hand over Alpine's fur slowly, the repetitive motion soothing. She's a warm weight on his thighs, purring gently, the tip of her tail twitching occasionally. Tentatively, he pets her with the metal hand, careful to keep his touch light. She doesn't stir, and something inside him loosens. He scratches her under the chin and she raises her head to give him a better angle, eyes half-lidded in pleasure. A frisson of pressure on the plates of the arm as her tongue darts out, rasping against the metal. He can only feel the pressure, nothing else, but he finds his eyes incongruously filling with tears. The arm has only been used for death and pain, and yet Alpine doesn't seem to care, leaning into his touch. It is his arm now, he thinks, no matter how it was gotten. He must live with that.

He grabs his phone from beside the bed and takes a picture of Alpine in his lap, sans metal arm. He smiles, the heaviness in his heart lifting momentarily. Maybe he'll be okay.

Unfortunately, now that the dam is broken, there's no stopping it up again. His dreams are haunted by memories of Hydra, and he wakes only hours into the night sweating and shaking, nose bleeding again. In the months since Hydra, he has been so focused on surviving, on dealing with the physical symptoms, that he has not focused on the psychological. He's had nightmares, and panic attacks, knows he is hypervigilant and paranoid, but the Hydra memories have often been vague and distant, not fully connected. Now, every time he closes his eyes the memories are there, vivid and horrifying; inescapable. It's like a block has been removed from his mind, and he wonders if this is programming breaking, his brain rewriting itself. He hopes so.

He returns to his PTSD coping journal, doing more research. Alpine is good for his mental health, and he writes her down on his  _list of good things_ for when he struggles to remember.  

> _Alpine_
> 
> _Food_
> 
> _Dessert (separate category)_
> 
> _Coffee_
> 
> _Warm blankets_
> 
> _Soft clothes_
> 
> _Hot showers_
> 
> _Hair ties_
> 
> _Yoga_
> 
> _Rice bags_
> 
> _Having a bed_
> 
> _The internet_
> 
> _Students_
> 
> _Nice people_
> 
> _Sunrises/sunsets_
> 
> _Freedom_

The sleeping is still an issue, but he doesn't want to take drugs to knock himself out - leaving him open to attack - and there's really no other solution. He doesn't see his PTSD going away anytime soon. Alpine helps sometimes, waking him by meowing, but he's afraid he's going to lash out and hurt her one day. 

He pokes at the dark bags beneath his eyes, and sighs.  _Oh well._

The rest of Sunday he spends catching up on neglected grading. Monday morning he opens the stolen duffel bag and slides the holographic sleeve over his metal arm, the material perfectly fitted. It extends up to his shoulder, and when he turns on the hologram it looks like ordinary skin, if one doesn't touch it or look too closely. The fingers and hand are a bit bulkier than a normal hand, moving not quite the same, but it should be enough to fool any normal person at a glance. 

He puts on a button-up and leaves the glove on for mystique. He has to have had a reason for wearing it, so he'll pretend there's some scar or something still. A flash of forearm is all he needs to convince everyone there's no metal arm hiding under it. 

Hair up, glasses on, coffee in hand, he kisses Alpine on the head and walks to school, scarf wrapped tightly around his throat. The break room is busy as always, and Bucky makes sure to say hello to everyone, putting on a cheerful front. He takes off his coat, hanging it on a communal coatrack, and then ever so carefully slops coffee on the sleeve of his shirt, exclaiming mournfully. 

"Oh no!" He frowns down at the stain. "I'm always so clumsy."

"Here." Karen wets a paper towel and dabs at it, lip caught between her teeth. "That's going to stain, sorry."

Bucky sighs. "It's fine. You know what, if I just roll it, no one will notice." He rolls up the sleeve to his elbow, exposing what looks like a normal forearm, glove still in place. The stain disappears, and he rolls the other sleeve to match, covertly checking everyone's reactions. There's a few stares, a few furrowed eyebrows, cocked heads. Eyes glancing down to his glove, curiosity piqued.  _Mission success._ Any suspicions of him being the Winter Soldier should be assuaged.

There's similar reactions from his students, who stare more openly than the teachers.

"You rolled your sleeves," America comments, when he comes around during lab. "I've never seen you do that before."

"Spilled coffee," he says. He leans closer, conspiratorially. "Besides, didn't want people thinking I was hiding a metal arm under there. Everyone's a little paranoid right now."

"Good point." America scribbles on her lab. "Though if you were him, I wouldn't mind. It'd be cool, actually."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"It's okay. I'm sure you'll make it up somehow."

Kate leans over. "No homework?"

Bucky laughs. "Now you're pushing it."

* * *

Peter and Ned linger after class, and Bucky prepares for their usual interesting questions. 

"Okay, so I was just wondering, because a lot of things don't make sense in those files, like, how would you actually  _program_ someone's mind? Is mind-control a real thing?"

Bucky tries to keep his face impassive, pulse jumping. "Yeah, mind-control is real. How it works? I have no idea. Hypnosis was-is part of it, I think."

"Oh right," Ned says. "Can't people hypnotize people and give them fake memories? I heard about that."

Peter brightens. "Yeah. That's so cool. I mean, obviously, not cool, you know, that Hydra did that, I'm not saying it's cool, it's, well, it's horrible, really-"

"Peter."

Peter's mouth snaps shut.

"I get it. Listen, I'd like to know how they did it, too. It's okay to be curious. I know you're not going to use your powers for evil." 

Peter's eyes are wide and innocent. "Of course not. I'd never."

Ned crosses his heart, nodding. "I swear, Mr. B. We were just curious."

"Sorry I can't help you more. I really couldn't tell you how exactly they did it. I suppose we should be glad they didn't spell it out for anyone to read."

"Do you think it matters that he was enhanced, though?" Ned asks. "Like, wouldn't the electroshock kill anyone else, or turn them into a vegetable?"

Bucky swallows, trying not to think of the hum of the chair and the smell of ozone. "Probably."

Peter and Ned ask him a couple more questions before scampering to their gym class, and Bucky heads towards the break room to grab a cold bottle of water for his rapidly blooming headache. Carl is in there, doing the same, and Bucky nods to him as he opens the fridge, grabbing his bottle of water. 

The pain hits him suddenly, a spike through his forehead. There's a whine in his ears, the chair powering up. The bottle of water slips from numb fingers and he claps his hand to his head, staggering as the world spins and blurs. 

"Whoa, James, you alright?"

He cracks open his eyes to see Carl's blurred form in front of him, face creased in worry. He's hovering, clearly not wanting to touch Bucky and have a repeat of their incident, but hands held out as if to catch him. 

"Head," Bucky manages to croak, still disoriented. 

"Come on, let's sit down." Bucky follows Carl's gesturing hands and stumbles to a chair, sinking down into it. "You're bleeding."

He feels the warm wetness on his lip, clarity returning. "Fuck."

He takes his glasses off, throwing them on the counter. A paper towel is held out and he takes it, tilting his head back and pressing it to his bloody nose. The pain in his head has ebbed to a dull ache, and he closes his eyes, focusing on drawing deep breaths. 

_You're here, you're safe, you're in control._

There's the scrape of a chair as Carl takes the seat across from him. 

"You need to go to the doctor or something?"

"No, no. I'm fine. It's nothing." He definitely can't go to a doctor. 

"You don't look so good. This related to your...amnesia?"

Bucky swallows, squeezes his eyes shut tighter. "Yeah." He takes a breath and opens his eyes, dabbing with the towel and finding the bleeding slowed. "It's getting better." He says it as much to remind himself of that fact. He's leagues from where he started.

"Well, that's good at least."

"Yeah." Bucky crumples the towel in his hand. Carl hands him his dropped water bottle and he presses it to his forehead, the coolness numbing the ache. "Thanks."

They sit there for a while until Carl leaves to do some work, Bucky reassuring him that he'll be fine. He drinks some water and then retreats to his classroom to nurse his headache and do some prep work, America and Kate coming in at lunchtime. The day passes quickly, and Bucky escapes to the solitude of his apartment, on edge.

He makes the mistake of checking the news, which only heightens his anxiety. The internet frenzy has still not slowed. People have made small moving images -  _gifs -_ of the videos, analyzing every second, zooming in on his face. Seeing his own face, expression so lost and hurting, makes hot shame gorge him, and he has to look away. People liked him to a kicked puppy, and they're not wrong. That's all he was - a dog.

 _But I knew him,_ people quote everywhere, accompanied by profusions of emotion and incomprehensible text. Bucky does not even remember saying that, beyond the vaguest sense. It seems they burned it out too well. 

He makes dinner and cuddles with Alpine on his bed, trying to ease the hollow ache in his chest. Again, his mind drifts to Steve. Steve, who had caused Bucky to question for the first time in years. Steve, who he  _remembered_ even after everything they did to him. He remembers the Helicarriers, his metal fist cracking against Steve's face, the anger and confusion in his mind.  _I'm with you to the end of the line._

He looks up Steve, but there's nothing recent. He has seemingly disappeared after DC. Bucky wonders what he thinks of all this, if he's read all the files. He hopes not. He doesn't want Steve to know what they did to him. Facing him, knowing that he knows....he can't do it, no matter how much his heart yearns for Steve. 

He curls up in his nest of blankets, miserable and alone, wishing he could just disappear. How does he keep going, knowing that almost every person in America - nay, the world - knows every horrific detail of his life? Knowing that they have watched him scream, watched him beg, read the worst of what Hydra did to him. Hydra had taken away his privacy, his dignity for seventy years, but this is worse. This is the whole  _world._

And then there is everything he has done. The missions, the people dead at his hands. Everyone knows that now, too. Knows the monster he became. They are right to fear him, right to blame him. Right to want him locked up. He didn't have a choice, but he did it. There's no escaping that. Can he really have a life now, knowing all that? Does he  _deserve_ to live?

There's a soft  _mrrw,_ and Alpine licks his cheek. He realizes he's crying and sits up, wiping his face and retrieving his thoughts from their negative spiral. 

Alpine needs him. His students need him. He is doing good in the world. He cannot change what happened, but to give up now would make it all for nothing. He has fought hard to free himself from Hydra. He won't throw that away. 

He takes a deep breath. Straightens his back. Retrieves his coping journal and spends some time on it, reminding himself that he can get through this. There are still things he wants to do in life, food to eat, cat videos to watch. He wants to see Hydra fall for good. He wants to see his students succeed. He wants to even out the balance of his crimes before he dies. He wants to make sure Steve is okay. 

Maybe he needs a little bit of Steve right now, he thinks. No matter what, Steve always got back up. He never gave in. And that's what Bucky needs to do.

* * *

He doesn't sleep that night, kept awake by nightmares and anxiety. He pets Alpine and reads some Harry Potter, resists the urge to check the news, only patrols his apartment twice and cleans all his guns once. When morning comes, he prods the bags under his eyes hopelessly and drinks an entire pot of coffee, which only makes his anxiety double. He's probably pushing it with his caffeine intake, but he stops at Starbucks on the way to school, ducking into the warmth and bustle of the store. The place is packed with people, putting him on edge, and he tries not to fidget as he waits in the long line. Finally, he's up to the counter, and a man about his age takes his order, eyes raking up and down his body in a way that makes Bucky's arm whir and recalibrate. 

_Does he recognize me? Is he Hydra? Have I been made?_

"What can I do for you?" he drawls, giving Bucky a crooked smile. 

"Uh, tall caramel macchiato please," Bucky says, ducking his head. He's tried many different flavors here, even the seasonal ones, and is constantly amazed at the way they can make coffee into a dessert. The pumpkin spice latte was his favorite in fall, and the peppermint mocha near Christmas. 

"Name?"

"James."

"James," the guy repeats, whose name-tag reads  _Patrick._ He scrawls Bucky's name onto the cup and types into the register, giving him his total. Bucky hands over a few bills and shuffles aside to wait for his drink, eyes constantly scanning the room. His drink is ready seven minutes later, and as he accepts it he notices more writing on the side. A number, and a message.

_In case you're interested ;) - Patrick_

Huh. He glances up at the barista, and then down at the cup. Not Hydra, then. Just interested in him.

It's, on one hand, baffling, and the other flattering. Bucky thinks about it as he resumes his walk to school, scarf tugged up around his face against the biting wind. He won't call, he knows that. Even if he wasn't a ninety-something-year-old brainwashed assassin with PTSD, he's been in love with Steve since the 1930s. He's not exactly dating material. Still, it's kind of nice to receive the offer, to know people can look at him and see someone someone they'd like to get to know instead of someone to be afraid of. He used to be popular in his day, he remembers faintly. Charming, handsome, flirtatious. All a cover, of course, but the girls loved him regardless. Or maybe because of it. Maybe that isn't all gone after all.

His coworkers notice his cup, of course, as he sets it down to unwind his scarf from his neck and shrug off his coat. 

"Ooh, an admirer," Karen says lowly, sidling up to him with a smile. "Gonna call?"

Bucky shakes his head, pasting on quick smile. "Nah."

"Not your type?"

"Something like that." Again, his mind goes to Steve.

He wonders which would be worse - if Steve didn't love him back, or if he did.

* * *

The end of the semester comes quickly after that. He doesn't sleep, drinks coffee like water, and tries to keep himself together. Alpine continues to be the light of his life. His students are either stressed or utterly Done™. The news cycle on him evolves, fades slightly. All the files have been worked through completely by now, analyzed and publicized and ranted about on fifty different websites and blogs. Mostly, people wonder where he is now. 

 _You wouldn't believe me if I told you,_ he thinks, as he passes tests out to his students, a pencil already in hand for the kid who always forgets one. There's a drawing taped to the whiteboard, a caricature Michelle drew of the class - she drew him with a messy bun and overlarge glasses, scowl exaggerated. He loves it. Below the drawing, a corner of the whiteboard is sectioned off, home to an assortment of writings and drawings from his students. _Meme of the day,_ the first line reads. He doesn't understand any of it. In a box next to his desk is an assortment of snacks, for the kids who come to school hungry but are too proud to say anything. He has a favorite pen. He got observed and the principal himself told him he was doing a great job. He's been offered the chance to stay on permanently. 

 _Things Bucky Barnes is doing -_ this. 

It really is the ultimate  _fuck you_ to Hydra, he thinks, with every test he grades, every smile on his students' faces, every time someone sees him and not the Winter Soldier. He can see himself staying here, until the world forgets about him, until he is nothing more than another teacher. He likes the idea of that.

The end of the semester is bittersweet. Both his classes take their exams, but his AP class will be continuing on next semester, unlike his intro class. Saying goodbye is harder than he expected. He's gotten attached to these kids, even the ones who were annoying. He wishes them good luck on their finals and regents and sends them out the door for the last time, their parting words ringing in his ears. There's a week of regents and then a few more days off before the next semester starts, and Bucky cleans up his desk, filing away papers from his intro class and starting over again for the next one, this time making his own syllabus.

 _Welcome to Introductory Biology!_ he writes. _My name is Mr. Beck, but you can call me Mr. B...._


	2. Second Semester (Feb-Jun)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is called: "Everyone is in love with Bucky but he just wants to pet his cat and do yoga," and "Bucky Barnes gets a twitter and breaks the internet," with a side of "awkward old gay men pine, hug for two hours, and cry." Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. Picture Endgame Bucky. Lookin-like-a-goddamn-snacc Bucky. That's this Bucky. (minus Steve f*cking off to the past)

Bucky rolls up his mat, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. Karen does the same next to him, chatting with a few other women in the class, the routine familiar now. As soon as Bucky had let slip he liked yoga, Karen had invited him to join her at the yoga studio she goes to, and Bucky had accepted. It's a few weeks into the new semester and he's fallen into a routine, the days slipping past. There are good days and bad days, but the good outnumber the bad.

"Hey." Karen comes up, mat tucked beneath her arm. "Coffee?"

Bucky smiles, pulling on his coat over his long-sleeved black t-shirt and wrapping his scarf around his neck, glasses pulled from his pocket and set back on his face. "Sure." He follows Karen outside, strolling down the sidewalk to a small coffee shop they frequent after class. The bell jingles as they enter, the air permeated with the smell of coffee and buzzing lightly with conversation. They order and grab a table, Bucky taking the seat with the best sight-lines.  

He and Karen have bonded since the holiday party. They both like math, and yoga, and coffee, and Karen doesn't seem to mind the fact that he doesn't understand any of her references. She's told him to watch so many shows and movies he's lost count, but she never truly presses. She also talks a lot, and Bucky is content to sit there and listen, the lilt of her voice soothing. It's nice, having a friend.

Karen taps on her phone and shows the screen to Bucky. "What about him?"

Bucky studies the Tinder profile, swiping through the images and reading the description. "Lives with his parents. Middle-class. Lifts weights, but not actually fit. Not interested in a serious relationship. Wants someone to replace his mother. Two out of ten."

"Damn." Karen takes her phone back, blowing on her coffee to cool it. "You're good at this." She sighs. "I give up. At this rate, I'm going to die alone. I might as well just accept my fate as a crazy cat lady."

"Hey, it's not so bad." Bucky gives her a crooked smile. "I've always thought cats were better than people."

"Better than men, at least," Karen grumbles. "No offense."

"None taken." Bucky firmly agrees that men as a whole are a plague on the world. He's considered buying one of those shirts with  _feminist_ printed on them, just because he can.

"What about you?" Karen gives him a piercing look. "Any prospects on the horizon?"

Bucky gives a soft  _hah,_ shaking his head. "No. Not really looking," he admits.

"Too busy?"

He shrugs. "I had someone. And I still..."  _I still love him._

"What happened?" Karen's voice is soft.

"It's...complicated." Bucky swallows, banishing thoughts of Steve, bloodied and beaten. "I hurt him. And there's the amnesia, all that." He gives a rueful smile. "Well, I guess I'm not really relationship material, anyways."

Karen takes a sip of her drink. "Don't sell yourself too short. You deserve to be happy."

"Thanks." Bucky clears his throat, changing the subject. "So, how are your classes going? There was that one kid, right, what was his name?"

"Oh my god.  _Bryce."_ Karen readily launches into a story about one of her most annoying students as Bucky sits back to listen, sipping his cooling coffee and watching the exits. After they've finished their coffee they bundle up and venture back into the cold, Bucky walking Karen to her car before turning towards his apartment. It's a half-hour walk, but he doesn't mind it.

When he gets there Alpine is waiting for him, meowing impatiently until his feeds her. He showers and eats before settling onto the armchair with his laptop, bringing up the news. Steve's face dominates the screen, and Bucky feels his breath stutter in his chest.      

> _Captain America Speaks Out At Last_
> 
> _Captain America on Winter Soldier: "He's a victim"_
> 
> _Where has Captain America Been?_

Bucky clicks on the first news article, scanning the lines of text.      

> _After months of silence in the wake of the DC devastation, Captain America has finally reemerged with a message about the infamous Winter Soldier. "He's a prisoner of war," he said in the press conference held outside Avenger's Tower, "and he deserves respect. I know many of you are scared, and you have every reason to be. The Winter Soldier is dangerous. But the Winter Soldier is not Bucky Barnes. I know Bucky would be horrified to learn what he's been made to do, so for his sake, as well as everyone else's, I assure you I'm doing my best to find him. I believe he's still in there somewhere, and he deserves a chance."_
> 
> _Wise words from a national hero, or simply a man refusing to give up on an old friend? The history between Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers cannot be overlooked when judging Captain Rogers' objectiveness..._

In the picture, Steve looks the same as ever, jaw set and eyes hard with determination. His skin is smooth and pale, no sign of the blood and bruises Bucky inflicted, no sign at all that he had nearly died at his hands. Steve is looking for him. Steve thinks he deserves a chance. 

Was that what he was doing all those months? Looking for Bucky? He imagines him knee-deep in Russian snow, searching for ghosts, and wants to scream for all the world to hear -  _I'm right here!_ He is so close, and yet so far. Part of him wants Steve to find him, to let him take the weight of the world. Another part wants to run far, far away where Steve will never find him, where he won't have to look the love of his life in the eyes knowing everything he's done. Steve wants Bucky back, wants his friend, and he cannot give that to him. Steve deserves to move on, to find other friends and other loves and not tear apart his soul for someone who died seventy years ago. He deserves better. 

Bucky, this Bucky, wants to stay here and teach and never touch violence again, and Steve Rogers is violence. Bucky is  _done,_ done with his old lives, both of them, and Steve cannot exist in his new life. 

So he closes his laptop and curls into the armchair with a book, Alpine on his lap, and tries to forget the ache in his heart. It doesn't work, and he wakes in the darkness gasping, the afterimage of Steve lying bloody and broken still behind his eyes. For a moment he thinks the dream was real, that he killed Steve, watched him take his last choking breath unfeeling. But as he breathes and trembles, reality trickles back, and he clings to the knowledge that Steve is alive, that he'd  _breathed_ on that riverbank, battered and bruised but not dead, not gone. 

How easily he could have been, though.

How close he came.

Bucky digs flesh fingers into the seam of his shoulder until it bleeds, stifling the sobs that tear from his chest. He wonders if he will ever be able to face Steve again. 

He wonders if he will ever be able to face himself.

* * *

He doesn't sleep the rest of the night, making him even more irritable than usual. Even coffee doesn't help, leaving him just as tired but jittery. The shadows under his eyes look like bruises, and a headache settles between his temples, the light making him squint. The constant lack of sleep over months is catching up with him. 

The fabric of his shirt seems too rough against his skin, too tight, too constricting. A smudge on his glasses that won't go away nearly makes him snap them in half in frustration. Everything is too loud and too bright and  _too much,_ and Bucky knows he is entering a state of maximum grumpiness as he drags himself to school, bundled up against the biting wind. 

Of course, the topic of conversation when he arrives is Steve, which only makes his black mood worse. 

"What do you think will happen when he finds him?" he hears as he approaches, slowing his steps. 

" _If_ he finds him. I don't think he will."

"Maybe he'll turn himself in."

"You know, I'm hoping he doesn't, because-"

The conversation pauses as he walks in. He hunches his shoulders under their glances, trying to be unobtrusive as he shoves his lunch in the fridge. He feels the weight of eyes on him and turns, frowning at the unreadable faces of his coworkers. 

"What?" It comes out harsher than he intended, more of a growl than a polite inquiry. Oh well.

There's an awkward pause, and shifting from people, which makes Bucky's anxiety spike. The world goes a little fuzzy at the edges. 

"Oh, nothing," Ellen says, breaking the spell and coming closer. She lowers her voice. "You look tired, is all. You alright?"

The knot of anxiety eases. "Yeah," he replies gruffly. "I'm fine."

Ellen clucks, studying his face. "Lordy, are you sleeping at all?"

Bucky shrugs, mouth tugging into a scowl. 

"Oh hon." Ellen sets a hand on his arm and he twitches even though the touch is feather-light. "Let me know if there's anything I can do."

Something heavy lodges in his chest, sharp with bitterness.  _There's nothing you can do,_ he wants to scream. There is nothing he can do about it, nothing anyone can do, nothing nothing _nothing_. 

He pulls away from her hand, mumbling an "uh-huh," and books it out of the room, not stopping until he's in his classroom, where he wallows in self-pity and recrimination until it's time for class. He tries not to inflict his bad mood on his students, but he's not sure he succeeds, snapping at two students for having their phones out. When it's finally time for lunch he grabs it from the break room without pause, ignoring Ellen's concerned stare after him. 

Bucky eats his sandwich as he surveys the classroom, watching Peter and Ned fiddling with something as MJ eats silently in the corner, America and Kate bickering over chips. His little lunchtime crowd has increased with the addition of Peter, Ned, and MJ, who all asked if they could eat in here at the start of the semester. He's secretly glad, as he misses having them in class. 

There's a loud  _bang,_ and Bucky jerks, immediately searching for the danger. His heartbeat echoes in his ears, everything going sharp and dizzying all at once. 

"Sorry," Peter mouths, chair firmly on four legs once more. Bucky narrows his eyes at him and tries to slow his breathing, face an impassive mask. He hates his hyper-vigilance, the way every little noise makes him twitch. His brain feels like the sound a fork makes in a garbage disposal, with the added bonus that the actual sound of a fork in a garbage disposal is bound to send him into spiraling panic. And, just like the sleeping, it doesn't seem to be getting better.

But there's not much he can do about it, so he simply keeps going, one day at a time. It's all anyone can do, he supposes.

* * *

Bucky hums under his breath as he does another push-up, music emanating from the speakers of his phone. Alpine is a warm weight on his back, unbothered by the slight jostling with every motion.  _Asshole cat,_ he thinks fondly. When he stands, she makes her way to his shoulder instead, digging her claws in for support as he does squats. When he pries her off and moves to crunches, she gnaws on his feet until he gives up and picks her up again, letting her climb him like a human jungle gym as he completes his workout. 

The music playing from his phone is a new discovery, after Karen had asked him his favorite kind and he had no answer. It amazes him how so many songs can be fit onto such a small device, no record necessary. He used to love music, he knows this much, but he doesn't know anything about music today. He'd asked Karen for help and she'd directed him to the basics - rock, pop, country, and indie. So far he's unsure about rock and pop, detests country, and likes indie. There's something about listening to music that quiets his nerves, makes the buzzing in the back of his brain stop for a bit. 

His metal arm whirs and shifts as he stretches and pushes a strand of hair out of his eyes. It's getting irritatingly long, hitting his shoulders and curling at the ends, which are fuzzy and split. He really needs to get it trimmed. 

He certainly can't go to the barber, though. Just the sight of those chairs through the window is enough to make him shudder, never mind the sharp implements by his face by someone he doesn't trust. 

Putting aside his problem for now, he takes a shower and heats his trusty rice bag, laying it over his shoulder as he grabs a handful of cookies from the still-warm tray and sprawls out on the couch with a history book. He'd asked Ellen for recommendations, as he wants to know all the history he's missed besides the major points he'd looked up. The technology and science are what interest him the most. He doesn't want to know about the Cold War, he was instrumental in that enough. No, what he wants to know is the  _good_ parts, how society had advanced, how things he'd only dreamed could happen came about. 

His current book is on space travel. Apparently, they've been to the  _moon._ _Multiple times._ He wants to go to the moon, but he'd been saddened to learn not just anyone can go. Maybe one day. 

He cracks open the book where he'd left off, wriggling into a more comfortable position and sighing as the heat from the pack sinks into his shoulder. Alpine leaps up to the couch with a chirp, settling on his chest, and he pets her head every so often when he turns a page, crumbs from his cookies getting in her fur. She doesn't seem to mind. They're good cookies, chocolate chips still gooey from the oven and sending memories gently swimming up to consciousness. He feels something warm in his chest as he sinks deeper into the cushions. Happiness - no,  _contentment._

* * *

"Hey Mr. B?"

"Hmm?" Bucky doesn't look up from the homework he's grading at his desk.

"You're good at math, right?"

He glances up to meet Peter's gaze quizzically. "Yeah, I suppose."

"Can you help me with this?" Peter holds up a worksheet.

"Sure." Bucky gets up and leans over her desk to look at his homework, taking in the complex geometry. "What's the problem, kid?"

Peter taps a question on the page, chewing on the tip of his pencil. "I can't figure out how to do this proof. It just doesn't make sense. I don't have enough values to get an answer."

Geometry, at least, is something Bucky can do. That and Trigonometry, from long hours spent calculating angles for shots and shield throws. He reads the question, serum-enhanced brain moving quickly as he works it out. 

"Ah. Here's your problem." He points to one of the angles. "That's fifty-six degrees, right? So this one is..."

"Thirty-four."

"Subtract that from one-eighty, it'll give you the opposite angle's value, see?"

"Ohhh." Peter lights up. "Of course. I'm an idiot." He scribbles madly on the paper, solving the problem in a matter of seconds. 

"Only occasionally," Bucky says seriously. Peter gives him an offended look and he laughs, straightening up. "Is that it?"

Peter nods. "Yeah, thanks. That one problem was bugging me. Ugh, I hate geometry. I like biology so much better. Can I take your class again?" he whines.

"Just wait a couple years, you can take AP Bio. Ask America and Kate about it."

"Don't do it," Kate deadpans from across the room. "He's an evil teacher, just the worst. It's a trap .You will never escape AP Bio."

"She's lying," Bucky stage whispers to Peter. "Don't trust her."

Peter looks past him and Bucky turns, catching Kate shaking her head and mouthing  _no._ Her jaw snaps shut when she sees Bucky and she smiles sweetly. "What?"

Bucky rolls his eyes and is hit with an acute sense of deja vu, Becca's face blurring with Kate's. They have the same dark hair, the same sharp wit. All at once, he misses Becca with a physical ache. He wonders where her letters are, the ones that had been back at camp with his pack and spare jacket, meticulously stacked and wrapped in string. Did anyone bother to save them? Did they send them back to her, after he was gone? He thinks of how much it must have hurt her; he thinks of his ma having to learn her only son was dead. There would have been nothing to bury, and he wonders what they had done. 

He was always meant to go before Becca, but now he is here and she is not and it  _hurts._ His ma and pa are gone, his family, the Commandos, even sweet old Fran who ran the grocery one street over - everyone he ever knew, dead. Steve is the only one left, and it's ironic, that he is the one person Bucky cannot see. It still hurts, regardless.

That weekend, he makes his way to Brooklyn, walking down streets he used to know by heart. His family's place is gone, the apartment he shared with Steve gone, too. There's a small memorial, Brooklyn honoring their own. It's not flashy or filled with stiff patriotic praise like the one in DC, just quiet memory and loving care.

His grave is in a small family plot, surrounded by flowers and cards. Beneath his name,  _Steve Rogers_ is scratched haphazardly into the stone. He wonders who did it. The shallow letters are fading with age, barely visible anymore. In a quiet moment of contemplation, he thinks it was probably Becca. She had always known, and Steve had been family. The flashy monument in Arlington would have meant nothing to those who truly knew him. 

He picks up one of the cards. 

 _Welcome home, Bucky,_ it reads.  _We support you, and wish you all the peace and happiness in the world._

_Love, Brooklyn_

He drops the card. Looks to the left, where his parents graves are, and then right, where Becca's grave sits. He takes one of the flowers from his grave and puts it on hers, fingers lingering over her name.

_Rebecca Barnes-Proctor. Beloved daughter, sister, wife, mother. 1920-2011._

He had a sister. He rolls the words around in his mouth, feeling the sharp edges.  _Have_ wants to trip off his tongue, said so many times it is muscle memory.  _I have a sister._

Had.He had a sister, and now she is gone.

He practices until it turns into an ache, until the very word loses its meaning.  _Had. Had. Had._

_I had a sister, and she was smart, and funny, and kind, and I loved her more than all the stars in the sky._

* * *

At the tail end of February, Bucky finally has the dubious pleasure of overseeing detention. A small television is wheeled in on a rolling cart, disgruntled looking students filing in and slumping into their seats. Bucky presses play on the video and retreats to his desk.

"So. You got detention. You screwed up."

His head whips up.  _What the-_

"You know what you did was wrong. The question is-"

Bucky lurches to his feet and jogs in front of the screen, staring at what is apparently  _Steve_ in a godawful Captain America outfit straddling a chair and spouting bullshit about - "the only way to really be cool is to follow the rules," Steve says stoically.

Bucky chokes. "What the hell is this?" 

He's pretty sure his students are staring at him in confusion, but he can't focus on anything besides the absolute  _travesty_ happening on the screen.

"Uh, it's a Rappin' with Cap video?" one brave student ventures. 

"Rappin. With. Cap?" Bucky repeats faintly. He feels a hysterical laugh bubbling up. "Excuse me."

He flees into the hallway, shutting the classroom door before breaking into hysterics, laughing so hard he thinks he's crying. He's glad the video is over by the time he re-enters the classroom, composed, all his students eyeing him like he might be insane. 

As soon as he gets home, he looks up the video on the internet, and to his absolute horror there are  _more_ of them, each worse than the last. He's wheezing as he jabs Karen's number on his phone, needing to know he's not actually going insane.

"Hello?"

"Karen," he wheezes. "Have you-have you seen-" He doubles over laughing, nearly breaking his phone with his grip.

"Are you alright?"

"The  _videos._ Karen, the  _videos._ Captain- _Rappin' with Cap._ Have you-"

"Oh, yeah." Karen chuckles. "First time seeing them?"

"He said-he said  _the only way to be cool is to follow the rules."_ There are tears in Bucky's eyes and his stomach hurts from laughing. "Steve has never followed a goddamn rule in his entire life. And what is he  _wearing._ Oh my god."

"Yeah, I'm not sure how effective they are."

"Oh my god, every single kid must hate Captain America. I would totally hate him. He's such an asshole." He's calming down now, only hiccoughing every few seconds as his laughter abates. He can't remember laughing that hard in over seventy years.

* * *

Bucky strolls into the yoga studio, hanging his coat and scarf on the coatrack and bending down to unlace his shoes. He's wearing soft grey joggers and a long-sleeved shirt, flesh sleeve on and glove for good measure, hair up in a bun. He tucks his glasses in his coat pocket and pads barefoot into the open space, unrolling his yoga mat along the wall at the back where he can see everyone. A few people are here already, chatting and stretching, the yoga instructor drinking from a bottle of water. She's the real deal, a physical therapist who runs yoga in the evenings and looks like she could kill a man even though she's barely five feet tall and  _tiny._ There's a fierceness in her eyes that makes Bucky pity her patients, and she doesn't tend towards the soft, spiritualistic yoga he's seen on videos; yoga with her is matter of fact and grueling, and she reminds him of a drill sergeant albeit without the yelling. It's one reason he likes this class. 

 _Uh-oh._ As if summoned by his thoughts, she's crossing the room and making a beeline for him, sharp brown eyes offering no escape. He swallows as she approaches, her gait easy and gliding, muscles flexing in her calves.

"James, right?"

He nods warily, and sees Karen enter the studio out of the corner of his eye.  _Save me,_ he prays.  _Karen, please save me from Annie._

"I wanted to talk to you about your injury," Annie says bluntly.

Bucky tenses, immediately on edge. 

"Do you have back pain?"

"..Yeah?"

Annie nods, as if he's confirmed something she already knew. "I figured. You list a bit to the left, and it twists your back in some positions. I want to make sure you're not hurting yourself during my class. That's the last thing we want."

"Oh." Bucky is still tense, but for a different reason.  _Failure, failure, failure_ flashes through his mind, an ingrained expectation of punishment to come. He remembers grueling training to make him compensate for the arm, to not give away its weight. She shouldn't have been able to see the difference, the  _weakness,_ fuck, he's getting  _weak, soft-_

"It's not a criticism," Annie says, and she sounds uncharacteristically kind. She has to tilt her head up to talk to him, brown ponytail falling down her back. "You hide it very well. But it's my job to notice this kind of thing. I don't want you hurting in my class because you're trying to do certain poses out of some stoic masculinity thing where you can't just admit you can't do it."

Well, she certainly doesn't pull her punches. 

"It's not-" Bucky stammers. "I just-I'm not...I didn't really...think about it."

Annie raises an eyebrow. "But it is hurting you?"

"I...yeah, I guess. But I don't...I didn't think it was bad?" His voice turns upwards at the end unconsciously, making it into a question. "I mean, it-it always hurts, it's not like...it's not...it doesn't matter." He flushes, wishing the ground would open up to swallow him whole.

"Of course it matters. It doesn't haveto hurt." She rolls her eyes. " _Men_."

He is the only man in the class, he's noticed. It doesn't bother him. He's more comfortable around women these days, probably because there weren't as many of them in Hydra, and certainly none as his handler. He was always surrounded by men, before; it's a relief to be around women. 

"I don't want to see you pushing yourself too far today, okay?" she says. "There's no place for that sort of thing in my class. I'll come around and see how you're doing, and I can show you some other ways to do the poses. Capiche?"

He nods. She gives him one last significant look and then strides to the front of the room as the last people take their spots, starting to warm up. Karen, on her mat next to him, raises a curious eyebrow. Bucky shrugs. 

He tries to pay attention to how his shoulder feels during class, instead of ignoring the familiar pain like always. He wasn't lying - he truly hadn't thought about it. He just does things and his arm hurts and he's never actually thought to  _stop,_ he realizes. Hydra had never let him stop. It's never been an option, but it is now, and still he hadn't thought about it. Christ, he's fucked up.

He does notice the weight of his arm dragging him to one side, the strain it puts on his spine even with reinforcement. The joint itself aches, scar tissue pulling at the seam and the attachment point burning with cold fire. Any movement makes it worse, really, but then to not move it makes it stiff later, and thus worse, and the whole cycle starts over again. There's no relief.

Then Annie is there, eyeing him critically and speaking softly, not touching even though she touches nearly everyone else in the class. 

"Straighten out," she says, or "don't put your weight on your shoulders," or "absolutely not, do something else." Bucky's arm whirs like normal as he goes through the poses, plates shifting and clicking beneath the sleeve. It seems loud to him, but he's fairly sure most people don't notice. 

His bare toes curl on the mat, the fourth toe on the right permanently knobby and crooked due to some mission injury he can't remember. He brushes his fingers over the arch of his foot, then the floor, breathing steadily and feeling the stretch in his spine, the back of his legs. He's moderately flexible, sure, and can do any number of flips and kicks and hand-to-hand maneuvers, but Hydra had focused more on strength and speed than true flexibility. He's built like a tank these days, too, so he has a harder time contorting himself into the graceful positions all the smaller women seem to achieve.

He has flashes of slender girls and pointed toes, red hair and rhythmic counting,  _plies_ and  _arabesques_ and  _again!,_ but he doesn't think ballet was ever a skill of his. He was the hammer, not the scalpel.

He breathes through the memories, focusing on the pleasant stretch of muscles, the soothing rhythm of Annie's voice and the quiet of the open space, late afternoon sunlight dappling the wood floor. It helps, he's found, if he just lets the memories trickle in, without either trying to remember or trying to block them out. The ones he gets these days are usually fuzzier, small things he forgot; details. By now he knows the broad strokes of everything that's happened in his life.

He also, unfortunately, is aware of how he looks. The Winter Soldier had had enough self-awareness to know how his targets would perceive him, how to slip between their defenses, but it had taken awhile for self-awareness to turn into _self-consciousness_ after. He knows he cuts an imposing figure, six feet and two hundred pounds of muscle plus the  _danger_ carved in every line; on the other hand, an attractive face and appealing physique. In a class of all women, half of them regard him suspiciously and half positively drool over him. He's had to arrive early just to get his spot in the back, as everyone wants to be behind him for one reason or another, whether to watch him like a hawk (and assuage fears of him watching  _them,_ he assumes) or ogle him themselves. It's....not ideal.

He's not here to watch women - not interested at all even if he was straight - and the attention just makes him anxious. After class is the worst, when a brave few approach him and get so  _close,_ smiling and flirting and edging closer every second before Karen is ready to go and he can beat a hasty retreat. He's not smooth anymore, like the old Bucky Barnes, doesn't have a way with words. All that comes out most days is incoherent mumbles and stutters. For some reason, that doesn't seem to deter any of the women. If anything, they seem to find his fumbling endearing, and that is a goddamn tragedy, he thinks. 

It's the same ones as always as the class ends. Bucky is feeling pleasantly sore and relaxed in a way that doesn't happen often. He wishes the women wouldn't burst his hard-won afterglow, but then, when does he ever get what he wants?

"So, Karen says you're a teacher?" one asks, Susan or Suzanne or something, he has no idea. 

"Yeah." He brushes away a strand of hair that's escaped from his bun, crouching down to roll up his mat. Maybe his monosyllabic answers will make her leave him alone today.

No such luck. Susan-Suzanne-whoeverthefuck is still there when he stands up, somehow closer than before. His body's internal alarms are blaring annoyingly as he strides over to the coatrack and grabs his things, ignoring his persistent shadow. The same strand of hair has come free again, and he twitches his head to try and move it out of the way to no avail, hands full. 

Susan - he's pretty sure that's it - giggles. "Here." She reaches out abruptly, aiming to brush the strand away, and it's enough for his fucked-up alarm system to override rational thought. He flinches violently, slamming back against the wall behind him as his mind flares with panic, heart rabbiting in his chest. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to breathe, the familiar prickle of shame and embarrassment overtaking fear.  _Stupid stupid stupid._ He's a world-class assassin. He shouldn't be afraid of a woman who looks like the human version of a chipmunk. He shouldn't freak out just because she tried to touch him, should've at least done something other than flinch like a defenseless coward.

"Sorry," he says, voice rough. "Sorry I-sorry."

When he opens his eyes Susan looks mortified, and pitying, and Bucky hates it. "No," she says awkwardly. "No, it's-I'm sorry. I shouldn't've-"

"It's fine," he forces out, still breathing slightly too fast. "You just...startled me. It's fine. I'm sorry."

She nods in a way that says she doesn't believe him, but is electing not to say anything out of pity. He can feel multiple sets of eyes on him as people start to file out, his mind a constant loop of  _stupid stupid stupid._ Finally it's just him and Karen and Annie, who's cleaning up, and he pulls himself together enough to put on his shoes, yanking the laces more aggressively than they deserve. 

"You okay?"

"I'm  _fine,"_ he bites out. Something complicated happens on Karen's face and Bucky scowls, staring at his boots. "It's  _stupid._ I-" He stands up abruptly. "Never mind. Let's go."

"Hold on." It's Annie, who has no doubt seen and heard everything. "James, do you have a minute?"

He hesitates, and glances at Karen, who gives him an encouraging nod. "I have grading to do, so I'm heading home. I'll see you tomorrow?"

 _Traitor,_ he thinks, without any heat. "Okay."

Annie waits until the door swings shut behind her before speaking. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he replies shortly. 

She hums disbelievingly. "It's never good to leave a session feeling bad. How's your back?"

"Fine."

"You have pain in your left shoulder as well, I'm guessing? Or thereabouts?"

He hesitates a long moment. _Don't show weakness don't show weakness-_ "Yeah."

"Looked like it. Obviously I don't know what you got going on there, injury or whatnot, but I can see some strain in your shoulder and back at times. That can really mess you up. Mind if I show you some exercises to help with that?"

He shrugs. "Sure." Can't hurt, he supposes. 

She describes to him a few exercises, demonstrating and then having him do them. 

"I can talk to some of them," she says out of nowhere, as he's pulling his arm across his chest. "About giving you space."

"I'm fine," he says automatically, defenses rising up.

"I didn't say you weren't. But this should be a safe space for you. I don't want anyone feeling uncomfortable here if I can help it."

"I don't need-" He takes a breath through his nose, gritting his teeth. "I'm fine, it was...it was  _stupid,_ I'm not-"  _I'm not broken._

"That's bullshit." Her sharp tone makes him look up, stunned into silence. "I don't care if you look like you could fight a bear and win. Shit happens, it hurts, you get fucked-up about it, and that's okay. It's not stupid."

Bucky swallows and looks away. "I don't...I shouldn't be..."

"No. None of that 'I shouldn't' bullshit. Fuck that. It doesn't matter how tough you think you are. If you said you were afraid of butterflies, I'd make sure there were none in here. You don't have to tell me why or anything, but you do need to tell me if you're hurting, or uncomfortable, and let me fix it, because otherwise I'm going to feel pretty shitty about my job. Got it?"

He nods. "Yeah."

"Good. Now get out of here, go do some self-care or something. I'm starving."

After that day, he notices the suspicious looks vanish. There is something like understanding in the women's eyes; a silent knowing and the empathy of shared experience. He is still ogled by some of the other women, but no one has tried to touch him since. They move around him carefully and yet casually, as if he is simply another part of the landscape. He ceases to be remarkable. 

He's even made friends, he thinks. There's Kate, who's quirky and bubbly but walks with a limp and adjusts her poses; Jamie, who's quiet and aloof but graced with dry wit; Elena, who rivals him in size and weight and is the most graceful of them all. He talks with them before and after class, rusty social skills creaking to life. He meets Karen for coffee afterwards most days and texts her regularly. It's...nice. Normal. 

He's also been going to the synagogue regularly. They are less strict about Shabbat nowadays, he finds, at least where he goes, but he tries the best he can. No one there questions his presence, and it helps, somehow, connecting with that side of him. He gets a kippah and a siddur, dusts off his rusty Hebrew, says the  _amens_ at the right time, tries to blend in. He gets to know the rabbi and talks to a few other people there. There is a tangible air of welcome, of community, of  _family._ Though he is alone, it is the only place he doesn't feel so. 

He writes it all down in his journals. There are so many journals now, so many words he thinks he could drown in them. 

* * *

Apparently, Ellen had timed her World War Two unit so they talk about the Howling Commandos right around his birthday. There's documentaries, apparently, and books, even an autobiography Falsworth had published before his death. The students had done projects on a commando of their choice, and unsurprisingly this year, most of them had picked Bucky.

He knows this because America told him, when she'd asked him to proofread her paper during lunch. He was stunned by what she'd written, torn between discomfort and overwhelming emotion. Her impassioned defense of him was excruciating to read. He managed to grit out an  _it's good_ and fled to have a short panic attack in the bathroom.

Someone else, she told him, did a poster project, another did a video project. Half the class did papers on him, a good quarter on Steve. He feels like his face is everywhere, his name in every mouth. Kate passes out pins with  _#SaveBucky_ on them. Bucky skims one of Ellen's textbooks, to see what history says about him, and about Steve and the Commandos, and feels sick.  _It's all wrong,_ he wants to say, even though he doesn't even know why. He only remembers some of it.

Ellen is true to her word, though. She teaches that he was a hero, not a villain. She tells her students that he is not responsible, that he is a  _good man._ She tells them a lot of things.

He appreciates it, even if he doesn't agree.

* * *

Bucky wakes up in a cold sweat, sucking in shuddering breaths. He gropes for his journal and pen and flips to the newest page, writing by the glow of the moon coming through his curtains.

_March 10, 2015._

_It's my birthday today and I dreamed about killing someone. I don't remember when it was, or where, only how he looked when I slit his throat. There was a little girl. She wasn't supposed to see, but she came downstairs for a drink of water. I didn't kill her. I didn't kill her. Thank God. I never hurt kids, I know that much. She had dark hair and pale skin and I can't stop thinking about Becca. I went back and debriefed and I think I was crying and then they wiped it and stuck me back in cryo and all I can think about is Becca. I didn't kill the little girl. I didn't kill her. Becca is dead but I didn't kill her but what if I had and what if I killed Steve and they would have wiped it and I wouldn't know and I would've killed him and I wouldn't know. Is it better to know or not? If I killed Steve I couldn't live with it. I would want to forget, I think, except that wouldn't be fair but life isn't fair and I've killed so many people and I don't remember them all and I don't want to remember because I'm a fucking coward but they deserve better. Steve deserves better. God I'm so fucking glad Becca isn't here because I don't want her to know what they turned me into. It would've broken her heart and I could never hurt her. I guess I've already hurt Steve worse and I can't take it back. I hurt him and almost killed him and yet I miss him so goddamn much. I fell before my last birthday, just two fucking weeks before and Steve said he was gonna give me something special and I never got to see it, God, I spent my birthday in a fucking prison cell without an arm screaming at those Russian bastards who captured me and thinking at least Steve was safe. I never expected to see another year much less seventy, and I don't even know how long I was awake, I don't even know how fucking old I am and somehow that's the thing that's bothering me the most. Out of everything, all the torture and killing and bad shit, it's not knowing my own age that makes me fall to pieces. Jesus H. fucking Christ I'm a mess._

* * *

"Happy birthday," Ellen says with a private smile, squeezing his arm.

Bucky blinks, then smiles back. "You remembered." He hopes she doesn't question that his birthday happens to be the same as Bucky Barnes.

"Of course. But I didn't think you really wanted me to tell anyone."

He's slightly stunned at her thoughtfulness. "Yeah. Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Your secret is safe with me." She winks.

Bucky chuckles and shakes his head. He's glad someone knows, at least, even if his birthday now is fraught with disquiet. Another year older, or something like that. He's not sure it means anything to him now. The truth is, he marks time more by  _before_ and  _after,_ by  _x months since Hydra._ Has it really been ten months already? He can scarcely believe it. Those early days after the Helicarriers seem like a dream, hazy and threaded with pain and confusion. The weeks after - even worse, as withdrawal ravaged his mind and body. It has taken a lot to get to where he is now.

That night, he pulls up the twitter app he has on his phone to keep tabs on things, staring at the trending topic.

_#HappyBirthdayBuckyBarnes_

> _Wishing you all the best!_
> 
> _We love you Bucky Barnes! Happy Birthday!_
> 
> _Happy Ninety-Eighth Birthday, Bucky!_

Bucky hesitates, thumb poised over the screen, and then makes an account. He tries a couple handles before he settles on one.

_@realbuckybarnes_

He huffs a small laugh. Is he real? Sometimes, he doesn't know.

For his picture, he snaps an up-close picture of the plates on his metal arm. He's not hiding, not anymore. If Hydra wants to get him, they'll have to find him themselves. He's not outing himself in his real life, but online, he thinks maybe it's time for Bucky Barnes to rejoin the world. 

Besides, he has a question to ask, and if there's anyone who can answer it, it'll be the millions of people online. He certainly can't and won't go through his file and figure out the exact time he was awake, but someone else can.

_Hello Twitter. Can anyone tell me how old I actually am?_

The first reply comes in a few hours later as he's smoking on the roof, staring up at the faint stars.  

> _@Caitycat: @realbuckybarnes 31 years, 2 months. He "died" a couple weeks from his 28th birthday, and was awake for about 2 years and 4 months with Hydra based on the files. It's been 10 months since the Helicarrier, so that adds to 3 years 2 months total._
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: Thank you_

Bucky blows out a plume of smoke into the night air, resting his head on his metal arm.  _Thirty-one years and two months._ He is thirty-one. He feels older than that, feels every inch the ninety-eight he is chronologically. The thought of having the rest of his life ahead of him, years and years and years is....staggering. He can do anything he wants. Maybe in a decade, two, people will have forgotten the Winter Soldier. They will move on with their lives, and so will he. Like a normal person. No fighting, no killing. Just this, every day. 

He'd like that, he thinks. He'd like that very much.

Maybe he should know better than to hope, to dream, but he does.  _God,_ does he dream.

* * *

By the next day, his twitter account has blown up. There are dozens of replies, many questioning his username - either offended and self-righteous or curious. Some accuse him of impersonating Bucky, which he supposes is true to a certain extent. But goddamnit, he  _is_ Bucky Barnes, thank you very much. He finds himself torn between amusement and offense, and delights in giving vague answers. He doesn't need to go  _announcing_ that he's Bucky Barnes, but he won't deny it either. Let people draw their own conclusions.   

> _@isaack: are you the real Bucky Barnes_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: who knows_
> 
> _@jezzi: Are you single?_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: who knows_
> 
> _@Jared19: @realbuckybarnes Please delete. This isn't a joke, have some respect for an actual POW._
> 
> * * *

His twitter account grows, and grows, and grows. There's backlash, from assholes and well-intentioned people alike. Bucky ignores most of them, and trolls others. He posts random thoughts, random moments from his day. Nothing to identify his new life, but it's kind of fun, to put his life out there by choice. It makes him feel real.    

> _@realbuckybarnes: [News story about Black child killed by police] I didn't die for this shit_
> 
> _@jjtomas: Fuck off stop impersonating a fucking assassin for your crazy agenda_
> 
> _@janelle: [Image: Man with text "But did you die?" written across]_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: its debatable_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: why are cats...like that_
> 
> _@chrise: they are evil_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: incorrect. next._
> 
> _@carryon26: They are satan's spawn_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: possibly_
> 
> _@lopez: Do you have a cat?_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: yes_
> 
> _@parksandfam: What is its name?_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: her name is Asshole_
> 
> * * *
> 
> _@caitycat: @realbuckybarnes pls tweet gay rights it will make my life_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: gay rights_
> 
> _@jemmach: OH MY GOD #lifemade_
> 
> _@lizardgirl: The Winter Soldier says gay rights, babey!_
> 
> _@torontomadness: TAke that Fox News_
> 
> _@jakestfarm: This isn't funny. You're defiling the name of a war hero._
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: my name is already defiled_
> 
> _@jjtomas: Please delete. You're obviously a crazy SJW using the Winter Soldier for retweets. Disgusting!_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: what is a sjw_
> 
> _@olive22: social justice warrior_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: oh you mean steve_
> 
> * * *
> 
> _@sagemma: @realbuckybarnes what are you doing right now_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: baking cookies_
> 
> _@izzieray: pics or it didn't happen_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: [image: metal hand holding sheet of cookies]_
> 
> _@jayhols: This has got to be top-tier photoshop_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: what is photoshop_
> 
> _@xmenunite: @realbuckybarnes tell us something about Steve no one else knows_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: the second time he broke his nose was from tripping up the stairs but he told everyone he got punched_
> 
> * * *
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: Asshole clawed me in the dick today. feeling #betrayed_
> 
> _@fandomluvs: I love Asshole so much_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: traitor_
> 
> _@veronicamarss: Perfect representation of what owning a cat is like_
> 
> _@timothyt: You named your cat Asshole?_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: she named herself_
> 
> _@trisbuckets: This is hilarious._
> 
> _@jamestboyzz: What did you do to make her claw you?_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: she was napping on me and I moved._
> 
> _@fandomluvs: You definitely deserved it then lol. How dare you disturb her rest?_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: I told her I was very sorry. she was only swayed by treats._
> 
> * * *

His twitter is a  _thing_ now, apparently. It's not taken seriously, for the most part, but he has a steady following now and finds himself inundated by asks. It's a nice distraction, he'll admit that. Ironically, people start asking him for  _advice,_ as if he's a reliable source. But hey, he tries his best.  _#AskBucky_ becomes a thing, and he mostly ignores the stupid questions.  

> _@jamielynn: @realbuckybarnes Why do you write everything in lowercase #AskBucky_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes I can only type with one hand_
> 
> _@carol_says: @realbuckybarnes Best pick-up line? #AskBucky_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: hello_
> 
> _@carol_says: That is not a pick-up line_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: Im out of practice_
> 
> _@lothlauren: @realbuckybarnes What is your favorite song? #AskBucky_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: shut up and dance_
> 
> _@gregg_thehobbit: @realbuckybarnes What should I have for dinner? #AskBucky_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes pasta_
> 
> _@cece23: @realbuckybarnes Favorite book? #AskBucky_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: the hobbit_
> 
> _@victoriaindigo: @realbuckybarnes Can you tell Asshole I love her? #AskBucky_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: done. she says meow_
> 
> _@yolanda: @realbuckybarnes What is your favorite food? #AskBucky_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: chocolate chip cookies_
> 
> _@francis: @realbuckybarnes Do you support trans people? #AskBucky_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: yes_
> 
> _@ashtonl: @realbuckybarnes Advice on how to get a girlfriend? #AskBucky_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: ask_
> 
> _@naomi77: @realbuckybarnes Favorite thing about the future? #AskBucky_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: science_

* * *

Bucky is watching a documentary on space travel on his new tv - a beaten-up cast-off from a neighbor that he fixed up - when it happens. One minute he is munching on a cookie and petting Alpine, the next the narrator says  _Sputnik_ and everything goes black.

He wakes by degrees, everything hazy and distant. He can hear the sound of the tv, echoing and distorted like he's underwater. Vibrations come from his pocket, insistent. He tries to open his eyes and only manages a crack, head pounding and throbbing. Light blinds him and he whimpers but nothing comes out. The vibrations stop and then start up again. He tries to move but nothing happens. Panic worms its way through the fog, but his breathing stays steady, limbs heavy as lead. He feels Alpine's paw tap at him and then the darkness takes him back under.

He wakes again and finds he can twitch his limbs. Primal fear beats beneath his breastbone, terror swirling in his mind. He hears voices and lurches to get away, to get out of the  _chair, he's in the chair no please-_

He hits the floor hard, cheek scraping against the rug. His limbs are weighed down, encased in ice. Someone is talking, multiple people,  _doctors, they've put him under, he can't move-_

He wakes up. There is something wet on his upper lip. Something vibrates in his pocket. A phone. His hand twitches, moves inch by inch. The phone slides from his pocket, then from his grip, hitting the floor with a clunk. He cracks open his eyes. The screen lights up, sending lances of pain through his head. His hand lands on the phone, limp fingers touching the screen. 

"James?"

He closes his eyes. His head pounds. 

"James? Are you there?"

He recognizes the voice.  _Karen,_ something in his brain tells him, though who that is escapes him. He makes a sound, a muted groan.

"Are you okay?"

"James, please answer us. We're worried."  _Ellen._

A cold nose nudges his hand, and there's a worried  _mew._

"Is that Alpine?"

Alpine yowls and licks his hand. 

"James, we're coming over right after work, okay?"

Alpine yowls again. The line clicks. Bucky closes his eyes again and drifts. 

He wakes. There's voices outside, the sound of the door jiggling.

"Please. We're his coworkers. We're really worried about him."

"Alright. Here you go. Just don't tell anyone I gave you this."

The doorknob jiggles. The lock turns. Footsteps, then two sharp inhalations. 

"James?" A hand grasps his shoulder, pushes him gently onto his back. He makes a sound, cracking his eyes open and squinting against the light. Blurry, indistinct images. A face leaning over his. A palm against his cheek, gentle. 

"Oh my god, what's wrong with him?"

"James, wake up."

The hand pats his cheek. He turns his head away, a slurred "Nnn" falling from numb lips.  _No._ They're going to wake him up, and wipe him, and send him out and then back to the ice-

"God, there's so much blood."

"James, can you hear me?" Ellen. Bucky squints, trying to make out her shape against the pain in his skull blinding him. He swallows, tries to make his voice work.

"Uhhh," he groans, chest falling sharply with the effort of it. 

Ellen grabs his hand. "Squeeze if you can understand me."

His hand twitches, and then he squeezes briefly. His limbs twitch again, and the pain inside his head doubles. He squeezes his eyes shut, a whimper clawing its way out of his throat.

"We should get him to a hospital."

"No. You know we can't."

"What if he dies? We don't know what's wrong with him."

"We'll have to hope he doesn't."

"What do we do?"

"I don't know." The hand holding his squeezes. "James, you have to help us. We don't know what's wrong."

Feeling is starting to come back to his limbs. He twitches again, grits his teeth.  _Wake up wake up wake up-_

His chest stutters. The hand in his grounds him, gives him a destination. Reality blurs, the pounding in his head an incessant scream. He feels phantom hands on him, hears the crackle of the chair. He feels the ice encase him, cells bursting. 

He is cold, so cold. He is on an operating table, in a tube, being dragged through the snow, strapped into the chair. There are hands on him, always hands, touching, prodding,  _hurting._ Voices. 

A hand on his shoulder, holding him down, pushing him back into the chair, hurting hurting hurting-

"No," he mumbles, cringing away from the touch with unresponsive muscles. "N-no, p-please, no-"

The hand leaves. He is shivering, feeling the ice release him. Voices. Not harsh, but soft.

"It's okay, it's just us. We're not going to hurt you. Stay with us."

He opens his eyes again. Blurry shapes. Dim light. A face. Blonde hair. 

"St-" he slurs. "Steve?"

"Oh, hon." A thumb strokes over the back of his hand. "Shh. It's alright."

He shivers again. Pain in his head, splitting it apart. Sharp breaths through his nose. A pained groan. A whir as the arm suddenly comes to life, plates shifting as it recalibrates. He gasps, electricity racing down his spine. His limbs jerk. He shivers.  _Wake up wake up wake up soldat-_

He lurches upright with a gasp, limbs flailing. Voices. Hands reaching out. He panics and scrabbles to get away, muscles like jelly, legs collapsing to the floor again. His head screeches and pounds. The world whirls in his vision, indistinct. He hits a wall, presses his back to it, terror paralyzing him again. Short, sharp breaths.  _Soldat soldat soldat-_

Footsteps approaching, figures crouching down. Soft voices. He shivers, lets his gaze fix on nothing. The breathing slows. The body calms, shivers. The voices continue, continue, closer and closer. He is not here. Soft and gentle. Tired, so tired. Cold.  _Soldat. Soldat._

He lets them touch him, lets them help him to his feet. He stumbles, walks. Collapses into something soft. Soft drawn over him, a hand on his brow. Voices. Warm, wet cloth on his face, dabbing gently. Hair brushed away from the forehead gently, fingers stroking his temple.  _Ma._

He sinks back into darkness gratefully.

* * *

Bucky wakes feeling like he's been run over by a truck, which then backed up and ran over him again. And then maybe someone went at his head with a hammer. His head is splitting. It's one of the worst migraines he's had, he thinks. Ugh. Just his luck. Everything  _hurts,_ like his muscles have been stretched out too far and then snapped back in place. His limbs feel heavy, tongue thick in his mouth. 

He cracks open his eyes, even that small modicum of light making him instantly regret his decision. He groans, praying for the sweet release of death. 

"James?"

Oh great. Someone's here with him. He should probably be more concerned about that. He chances opening his eyes more, Ellen's face resolving in his tunneled vision. She looks worried and tired. Karen's face pops up next to her, because why not, right? Either this is a dream, or he's fucked.

"Wha-" His voice is nothing but a croak, and the words are hard to form for some reason. He swallows, tries again. "What happened?"

"You don't remember?"

Uh-oh. That's never a good sign. Anytime he can't remember, it usually doesn't end well. Last time it ended with his fist in Steve's face. He closes his eyes again, not wanting to face whatever horrible truth awaits. 

"What did I do?"

"No-nothing. It wasn't-we found you passed out. You didn't show up for work, and you hadn't called in, so we were naturally concerned. We tried to call you, but you weren't answering. Then you did pick up, but you didn't say anything. So we came here after work, got the landlord to let us in. You were, um, passed out on the floor, really out of it, bad nosebleed. You woke up a little and...then went to sleep."

He opens his eyes again, frowning at Ellen. Searches his mind. Sure enough, there are vague memories - watching tv, hearing his trigger word, flashes of paralysis and fear and pain. Fucking Hydra. He should've been more careful. Without anyone to wake him up with the code, he would have had to break the trigger himself. He was incapacitatedfor  _hours._ Full paralysis and unconsciousness. Hydra had used it whenever he got out of control, or when they wanted to work on him without tying him down. Transport. Punishment. Whatever the fuck they wanted. 

He swallows down the memories that threaten to overwhelm him. The visceral panic leftover from the trigger is still there, the horror at being helpless, at being locked inside his own mind.  _Not in control._ It is the stuff of his worst nightmares.

He glances down at his arm, breathing a sigh of relief when he sees the flesh sleeve still on. He hadn't taken it off yet, having been planning on going out for food that evening. So they hadn't seen that. And they'd be freaking out if they had, so he's pretty sure his identity is still intact.

"How are you feeling now?" Ellen asks. He suppresses a wince at her voice, head throbbing.

"Fine. Head hurts," he rasps. He still feels  _wrong,_ like he is outside his body. 

Karen leans forwards. "What, uh, what happened? Do you know?"

He shrugs, carefully weighing his answer. "Brain damage...stuff."

"But you're alright?"

"Yeah," he lies. Well, it's true  _enough._ He's alive and himself, at least.

"That's good. You had us worried."

Bucky takes a moment to look around, taking in Ellen and Karen perched on either side of him on the bed, Alpine curled by his feet. There's light peeking around his curtains, making him squint, and he tries to piece together a coherent narrative of the time lost.

"What time is it?"

Karen checks her watch. "Eight o'clock in the morning. Saturday."

Bucky stares. " _Saturday?"_ It had been Thursday afternoon when he was triggered. It means he'd spent over twenty-four hours paralyzed and unconscious, more sleeping if Ellen and Karen came straight from school Friday afternoon and stayed with him. That means....they stayed all  _night._

He squints at them. "You...you're still here?"

"We couldn't leave you," Ellen says. "Not until we knew you were okay."

Karen shrugs. "Ellen went home to sleep for a bit, we traded off watching you."

"But...you..." Bucky swallows. "Thank you. You didn't have to do that."

"I know," Karen says. "But we wanted to. We're your friends."

Bucky smiles shakily and levers himself up with a groan, managing to sit back against his pillows as the world spins slightly. He closes his eyes and massages his temples, breathing through the swell of nausea. 

"You need anything? Water, food?"

"You don't have to-"

"James."

"Water would be great."

There's rustling as Ellen gets up, the clink of a glass and the tap running in the kitchen. She returns bearing a glass of water which he takes gratefully, drinking in small sips. He hands the glass back when he's done, slumping back against the pillows. 

"Are you going to be okay here alone?" Ellen has lowered her voice to a near whisper, likely realizing his migraine. 

He goes to nod before thinking better of it. "Yeah." 

"Okay. Your phone is right here, call us if you need anything. I'll probably stop back in the evening to see how you are."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know, hon." Ellen pats his leg and stands. "Get some rest."

As soon as they are gone Bucky drags himself out of bed, stumbling on wobbly legs to the kitchen. He feeds Alpine, whispering apologies, and starts up the coffee maker. Caffeine withdrawal will only make his migraine worse, even if he'll probably throw up the actual coffee. He keeps the lights off and the curtains drawn to try and reduce the light, squinting and making his way around by feel. He's too drained to attempt a shower, but he manages to pull on sweatpants and a oversized sweatshirt, taking the flesh sleeve off his arm to let it breathe. His shoulder aches, and the arm lags a second behind his thoughts, moving jerkily. He doesn't even have the energy to care.

He heats his rice bag and drinks his coffee in sips, settling back onto his bed. He must drift off at some point, for he wakes panting and disoriented from memories of hands and cold and pain. He barely stumbles to the toilet before he throws up, the world spinning and head pounding. Blood drips from his nose, running down his chin and spattering the tile. He shivers and shakes, dry heaving for minutes before finally slumping onto the floor. 

 _Mrrw?_ Alpine asks from somewhere.

"Hnnng," Bucky replies, cheek mashed against the cool tile. Maybe he should just stay here forever. Let his brain dribble out his ears - which is what it feels like it's doing currently.  _Fuck_ trigger words. And he's lucky it was just his shut-down code, not his start code. Ten words, and he'd be the Winter Soldier again. It's why he has to stay hidden. Ten words, and his mind is no longer his own. It feels like he's just waiting for it to happen.

He shivers again, sweat cooling on his skin. With great effort, he heaves himself to his feet, swaying as the world spins and black spots dance in front of his eyes. He hasn't eaten in over two days, but he knows he won't be able to keep anything down. Oh well. He leans on the sink and swishes with mouthwash, manages to scrub most of the blood off his face. There's more drying on the hem of his sweatshirt, but he can't bring himself to care. 

He falls into bed, grabbing his journal and pen. It's habit to write his dreams down, as much as he doesn't want to, habit to debrief after anything happens. Maybe it will help flush the last of the programming out of his head. He knows that's why his brain is melting, synapses rewiring over old programming that wants to sink its claws in deep. He just has to beat it.

He can't even see what he's writing, hand shaking so badly he's sure it's illegible.

_Trigger word shutdown code out for over 24 hrs unconscious and paralyzed. Head hurts, body hurts, arm semi-functional. Nosebleeds. Dreams of trigger word - surgery, cryo, repair. Attacked handler and they used trigger word. Sometimes unconscious sometimes not but can't move. Hurts. They are always touching me and I can't move and it hurts_

Annnnd he is having a panic attack.  _Great job Barnes._ The panic attack is over in approximately three minutes, but it _fucking sucks_. Bucky is extremely Done with this day and with his piece of shit brain especially and with everything at the moment, and promptly falls asleep again in all his shaking, sweating, bloodstained glory. His last coherent thought is  _fuck this._

He wakes some indeterminate time later from yet another nightmare, but luckily there's nothing in his stomach to throw up. He drinks some water, re-heats his rice bag, feeds Alpine, and then collapses back into bed. Knowing Ellen might be coming back at some point, he has the foresight to drag a glove over his metal hand before he dozes off again. 

He's drawn from sleep by soft knocking. Sitting up with a groan, he shuffles out of his room and unlocks the apartment door, squinting at Ellen. She holds up a container of something.

"I brought chicken noodle soup," she says quietly, and Bucky is grateful for her thoughtfulness. "How are you doing?"

Bucky grunts, opening the door to let her in. "Okay," he replies, voice no more than a whisper. "Thanks."

Ellen sets the container down on the counter, rifling around in his cupboards for a pot. She starts warming up the soup as Bucky puddles into a chair at the table, resting his chin on his arms. Alpine jumps up on his lap and settles down, claws pricking his thighs.

When the soup is hot, Ellen pours it into a bowl, putting it in front of Bucky. 

"Eat. I'm guessing you haven't had anything in a while." 

Bucky makes a face and picks up the spoon, blowing on it before taking a cautious slurp. It's good, rich and buttery. It tastes like home. 

"It's good," he rasps around another spoonful as Ellen sits down across from him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Ellen pauses. "Is that blood on your sweatshirt?"

Bucky looks down, taking in the rust-colored stains on the hem. "Oh. Nosebleed." He eats another mouthful of soup. Closes his eyes, feeling sick. "I didn't hurt anyone." It comes out small and broken, barely audible.

"I didn't think you did," Ellen says carefully. 

A different trigger, and he would have. 

The spoon creaks in his grip. Bucky takes a breath and opens his eyes, going back to eating. He drops his left hand to his lap, stroking over Alpine's back and scratching behind her ears as she purrs. 

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He swallows. "Not really."

"Okay." 

They sit there until Bucky finishes his soup and Ellen takes his dish to the sink before gently herding Bucky back to bed. She asks him if he needs anything else, and he replies negatively, already feeling tiredness creep up on him again. She bids him good night and leaves, and Bucky drifts off to sleep warm and full, Alpine curled under his chin.

* * *

When Bucky wakes, his headache has lessened and light is spilling through the gap in his curtains. A check of his phone tells him it's seven am on Sunday. He takes a shower, brushes his teeth, trims his beard, and throws his sweat- and blood-soaked clothes in his laundry bag. Alpine yells at him until he feeds her, and he opens his fridge to sigh at his empty shelves. He never did go grocery shopping. 

His phone lights up with a text, buzzing on the counter.

_Karen: Hey, how are you feeling?_

He types with one hand, thumb moving laboriously across the screen. 

_better. thank you._

He throws his hair up in a bun, draws a coat and glove on over his sweater, grabs his wallet and laundry bag, and heads out into the crisp March air. He hits the laundromat first, washing his clothes and dropping them off at his apartment before going to the grocery store and stocking up on food. He makes scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast and drinks an entire pot of coffee, feeling the caffeine ease the lingering tightness behind his temples. He stretches, muscles weak and limbs uncoordinated, motor skills fubar'd from the trigger. His metal arm is still lagging, too, and something is sticking in his thumb.

He cleans his apartment, rotates his hiding places for his weapons. If Ellen or Karen had found any, or noticed the knife under his pillow, they didn't say. His journals are all stacked by his bed still, older ones in his go-bag under the floor. He folds his laundry and notices the bloodstains are still in his favorite sweatshirt. Frowning, he takes to the internet, figuring out the best way to get rid of them. He checks his twitter, answering a few questions and giving advice to a couple hapless teens. Finally, he gathers some tools and sits cross-legged on the floor as he pries open plates on his metal arm, frowning at the complicated machinery within. He moves his thumb and it grinds, then sticks with a horrible noise.  _Fuck._ He has no idea how to fix this.

He tries a few different things, poking and prodding at wires and circuits and pistons. He hits something that makes him black out for a full minute, coming to gritting his teeth against the searing pain arcing down his spine. He learns not to touch that wire. 

He still can't figure out how to fix the lag in his arm. He hesitates, then decides to throw caution to the wind and ask the internet. Someone out there must be able to help, or at least lend a second pair of eyes. They've surely studied the files that he can't bring himself to read.

He props up his phone with a good view of his arm and then hits record. 

> He twists his stripped arm, giving the camera a good view of the mechanics without the plates. He bends his thumb, and it jerks uncooperatively, emitting a high-pitched whine. He moves it closer to the camera, exposing the inner parts and poking around with his pliers. 
> 
> _Mrrw?_ Alpine pads up and nudges his arm.
> 
> "No, sweetheart," he chides, trying to herd her away with his flesh arm. Alpine is not a fan of being denied anything, so naturally, she tries harder to get close, fascinated by his squeaky thumb. 
> 
> "I am trying to work," he says sternly, though his voice is still a rasp. A good thing, too, or someone will recognize his voice. 
> 
> Alpine finally gives up and tries another tactic, lying down and rolling over in a patch of sunlight, exposing her white belly temptingly.
> 
> Bucky just rolls his eyes. "Asshole." He clears his throat and returns to his arm. "Okay. Reflexes." He picks up a pen in his right hand and drops it over his left. It moves to catch it, but an instant too late, and the pen clatters to the floor. He tries to pick up the pen, but with the thumb malfunction he can't get a good grip. "Range of motion." He wiggles each of his fingers, thumb squeaking and jerking, twirls his wrist, makes a fist and unclenches it.
> 
> "Zero thumbs up." He chuckles at his own joke. Alpine meows inquisitively. 
> 
> "Oh shut up," he mumbles. He reaches over and stops the video. Reviews it, to make sure there's nothing too incriminating. Just his unremarkable floor, carpet rolled out of frame, his crossed legs in sweatpants with fluffy owl socks, his arm, and a small slice of Alpine. His voice is unrecognizable, still rough and low from the shitshow of the past couple days. 
> 
> _Does anyone know how to fix this?_ he writes.
> 
> He hits post. 

The replies come in quickly.   

> _Oh my god, this is real, it has to be, oh my god_
> 
> _The Winter Soldier is so cute? He calls his cat sweetheart omg?_
> 
> _Gah is this real?? This can't be faked_
> 
> _Oh my god. His voice. His cat. His laugh. His fuzzy socks. This is everything._
> 
> _What's wrong with his arm?_
> 
> _His arm is broken!! Oh no!_
> 
> _I thought this account was a joke but now I'm not sure?_
> 
> _This is so adorable. He's so soft here_
> 
> _It's Bucky!! Bucky!! And Asshole!! I love them!_

Finally, after a few hours, he gets some actual answers to his problem. Someone posts a reply video with hastily sketched printouts of his arm and walks him through what he thinks should work. Bucky finds he can record easier with his computer, so he sets it up facing him but angled so all it can see is his chest. Alpine settles on his lap, just a ball of white fur on the screen. He pulls up the video on his phone so he can follow along, and hits play on both. Data collection, and all that.   

> _"Okay, so while it looks like you're having problems with the thumb mostly, you're also having a reflex problem. I don't know what would've caused it, but I'm pretty sure the fix is up under plate number three, under the red star."_
> 
> Bucky hits pause. Yeah, that's going to be hard to reach. He strips off his sweater, leaving him in just a white undershirt, and finds plate three, having to twist to reach it. He reaches down in front of him and presses play again on the video.
> 
> _"So, once you get the plate off, there should be three main pistons visible. Right next to those is a circuit board. You need to trigger a reset of the nervous system interface to recalibrate your arm. Take a size zero screwdriver and press the little blinking button on the circuit board until the arm powers off. Wait fifteen seconds. Then, hit it again and it should come on."_
> 
> Bucky pauses the video and takes a deep breath, grabbing the tiny screwdriver in a shaking hand and turning his arm to the camera until he sees the blinking light deep in his bicep. He aligns the screwdriver with the button, touching it to the metal before hesitating. 
> 
> What if the guy is telling him the wrong thing? What if he's secretly Hydra, and this is a kill switch? Honestly, Bucky is pretty fucking stupid to be trusting someone from the internet, but other people had commented and corroborated this video. He'll just have to hope for the best.
> 
> He presses down. At first, nothing, then with a whir his entire arm shuts down, a dead weight at his side. He sucks in a breath, trying not to panic at the sudden loss of feeling, the lifelessness. 
> 
> He counts under his breath. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen."
> 
> Another shaky breath. "Okay." He hits the button again. 
> 
> Immediately, his arm erupts in a cascade of neural signals, whirring to life. He gasps, curling around his arm as the screwdriver slips from numb fingers. Electricity races up his spine. It  _hurts,_ a ripple of pain traveling down the arm and back up, feedback loops overwhelming his brain with sensation. It's a full minute before it passes, the last mechanisms shifting and then falling still, the buzz in his head fading back to normal. He breathes unsteadily, fighting down memories and panic. He chances attempting to move his arm, rewarded by fluid movement and happily thrumming sensors. 
> 
> He exhales. "Thank fucking Christ." It slips from his lips without thinking, Brooklyn accent coloring the words. He takes a moment to pet Alpine, who's been disturbed from her nap by his distress and is sniffing him worriedly. He holds out his metal fingers to her and she licks them. Bucky laughs, pulling them back at the strange sensation.
> 
> "Thanks, sweetheart. Okay, next." His thumb is still malfunctioning, but it should be an easier fix. He presses play on the video again.
> 
> _"As for the thumb, open up the knuckle and take a look at the hinge. You may have a screw loose."_
> 
> "Yeah, you've certainly got that right pal," Bucky mutters, working off the tiny plates over his knuckle. "Okay, Asshole, don't touch these. Not a toy, got it?" He lays them out on the floor in the order he took them off so as not to confuse them. He studies the hinge where his thumb bends, hearing it squeak as he moves it. Sure enough, a tiny screw is coming loose, and the hinge is in serious need of oiling. He selects the right sized screwdriver and carefully tightens the screw before spraying the hinge with WD-40, working his thumb until the squeaking stops. He gives the camera a thumbs-up.
> 
> "Thanks." He starts to put his hand and arm together again, plates clicking into place. His whole arm runs a calibration loop, plates shifting up and down rhythmically. He waves at the camera, wiggling his shiny fingers. Presses stop.

There's really no reason to post the video, except he wants to. He wants to tell the guy thank you, wants people to know he's capable. It's a risk, posting more video of himself. His voice, his body, his cat. People could connect the dots, if they looked very closely. He just has to hope no one will. After all, the only people who hear him are students and teachers who would never in a million years think the Winter Soldier was teaching high school biology. The only people who know about his cat are a few teachers, and only Karen and Ellen have ever seen her in person. He wears enough layers, alters his appearance enough that no one should be able to recognize him. 

He also feels like maybe he owes something to everyone. Owes it to them to show he's not dangerous anymore, that he's just trying to live his life. Owes it to Steve to show him that he's alive, and doing okay. Maybe Steve will stop looking for him now, let him be. 

He uploads the video to twitter and hits post.

* * *

 

>   ** _Notifications:_**
> 
> _25,659 likes_
> 
> _15,532 reblogs_
> 
> _1,000 new followers_
> 
> **_Trending:_ **
> 
> _#BuckyBarnes_
> 
> _#BuckyBarnesTwitter_
> 
> _#WinterSoldierTwitter_
> 
> _#WinterSoldier_
> 
> _@caitycat: @realbuckybarnes I love you #BuckyBarnesTwitter_
> 
> _@lemonch: Is it confirmed? Is it really him? #BuckyBarnesTwitter_
> 
> _@angieh: Oh my god this is incredible. Bucky Barnes has forreal been on twitter this whole time. It's real, it's happening. #BuckyBarnesTwitter_
> 
> _@veronicawinchester: I love Bucky he's so soft I just want to hug him (and his cat) #BuckyBarnes_
> 
> _@samsawyer: Wtf is the Winter Soldier doing on Twitter? #WinterSoldier_
> 
> _@monroeel: Let's face it, this is just a stunt to get sympathy #murderer #WinterSoldier_
> 
> _@karadanvers: I'm so happy for Bucky he looks like he's doing well #BuckyBarnes_
> 
> _@AmericaChavez: Hell yeah Bucky is back, baby #solidarity_
> 
> _@KateBishop: @realbuckybarnes Tell Asshole I love her and would die for her_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: acknowledged_

* * *

Bucky straightens out things with the school on Monday, apologizing for not calling in and explaining that he had been incapacitated by a migraine. His students are happy to see him, asking him where he's been; they were obviously worried and he's touched. He tells them the same thing, and picks up his lessons where he left off, happy to be back in a routine. News outlets have started to pick up the twitter story, circulating his videos and examining them for authenticity. General consensus is that they are real, but a lot of people are still skeptical. There's no word from Steve, a 'no comment' from the Avengers' PR Rep. 

He's also the topic of discussion among teachers and students alike. He hears them gossiping, sharing opinions and thoughts on what he's up to, why he made the videos, where he is. If only they knew. His students are positively bursting at the seams. Kate is obsessed with his cat, America thinks his arm is really cool, and everyone seems to have  _opinions_ about him. Some are nice, some sting, and some are just plain weird. Well, that's kids for you, he thinks.

He makes sure to encrypt his phone and laptop, and reroute his wireless signal. He uses Starbucks' WiFi to tweet often, varies his location and time. He hopes it's enough. He really doesn't want to give up this life.

Bucky has gained two new members of his lunch club, Teddy Altman and Billy Kaplan. They're freshmen in his introductory biology class, and together in a way that makes Bucky's teeth hurt. They're unapologetic and genuine, and Bucky likes them. They're good kids. 

America and Kate continue to ace his advanced biology class, and generally annoy him on a daily basis. Admittedly, though, he's not as annoyed as he pretends to be. He's rather fond of them, actually, and he just knows that they know that too, the assholes. 

Peter and MJ are, wonder of wonders, actually becoming friends instead of MJ stalking Peter like a stray cat. Ned remains oblivious to the romantic tension between them, friendly as ever, but then he's got his own crush to deal with. Ah, the joys of being a teenager. Bucky remembers it....well, not  _well,_ but enough. Steve and he had danced around he each other for a while before finally doing something about it, and he remembers the ache of want, the self-consciousness, the shameful midnight self-abuse to thoughts of Steve. Yeah, he'd been just as awkward as any of these kids. History is a lie. 

It's strange, he thinks, only now realizing that while he knows he is  _in love_ with Steve, he hasn't had any of  _those thoughts._ He's been free for over ten months and he hasn't even jerked off once _,_  and _oh God_ _what is wrong with him._

How has he not thought about this before now? He hadn't even noticed what was missing when he thought about Steve. He wants touch, he knows that much. Craves it like a drug, even if half the time his brain rejects it. He has noticed that he can do touch with certain people who are safe in his brain. Ellen always reaches out slowly, telegraphing her movements, letting him choose whether to move away. It gives his shit brain time to make a threat assessment and come up negative. Karen, too, can touch him, slight brushes of his arm, a nudge of the elbow. It is when other people try to touch him that his brain misfires, panic lighting up his neurons. Too fast, too unknown,  _too much_. 

But still, he wants it. The brushes he gets are not enough to soothe the itch in his brain. It is a bone-deep ache, a longing. He wants to hoard touch like a dragon, wants to be held and comforted and reassured. He feels like he may fall apart without it. There's nothing sexual about it, no desire to do anything more than hug and cuddle and be touched in a way that doesn't hurt, and that is all he thinks about when he thinks of Steve. He thinks of love, and safety, and comfort. Not sex.

It stumps him. He knows he liked sex before, sought it out even. He has memories of he and Steve together, but when he thinks about them all he feels is the quiet reminiscence and the longing for the kind of trust they had to be so intimate, the way they could touch each other freely. The memories don't make him excited or aroused, but they don't turn him off either. They're just _there_. 

When in doubt, he turns to research. After some digging, and finally including  _brain injury_ and  _PTSD_ in his search terms, he finds a whole plethora of articles on decreased libido after brain injury and in veterans with PTSD. Huh. So maybe it's not so weird. There's ways to help, apparently, but he finds he doesn't want that. As long as he knows it's not something terribly wrong, he really doesn't care. Sex is one less thing to worry about. 

It's kind of freeing, actually, knowing he wants touch without the sexual aspect. It means anyone he trusts enough can give him what he needs. But how to ask for that? From what he's seen, it's not really acceptable to be that tactile nowadays, especially for men. And Bucky was always a tactile person, before Hydra. Maybe that's why he's craving this so much - that, and he hasn't been touched gently in over _three_   _years._ Seventy years, if you count the ice.

His best bet, he thinks, is Karen. It is less unheard of for a gay man and a woman of similar ages to be close, to touch platonically. Karen doesn't seem to have a problem with casual touch, though he knows she holds back for fear of startling him. He wishes she wouldn't, just once.

His chance comes a few days later, when he tells Karen he hasn't seen any Disney movies except  _Snow White_ and she immediately sets up a movie marathon. 

"I can't let this stand," she tells him. "I can't let you live without having seen all the good Disney movies."

So that's how they end up on her couch on a Friday night, eating pizza as animated characters flit across the screen. Bucky edges closer every so often, trying not to be obvious. It turns out it's not necessary, however, as Karen deliberately shifts to press against his side, head resting on his flesh shoulder. Bucky stills, and then breathes out, relaxing.

"This okay?" Karen murmurs.

Bucky nods, and sinks deeper into the cushions, relishing the press of Karen's arm against his own. It's nice. Grounding. He breathes in and out, feeling his muscles unknot.

"You make a good pillow," Karen mumbles sleepily at some point. "Soft and...squishy."

Bucky feels a pleased curl of warmth in his chest. For Hydra, he had only been hard edges, sharp and unforgiving. To be  _soft,_ to have his body mean comfort instead of a tool of death and destruction...it's worth more than anything.

He also maybe cries a little at more movies than probably acceptable, but it's okay. It's better than okay.

* * *

Bucky stares at the trending tweet, the little blue check mark by the account staring at him accusingly.

> _@realsteverogers: Is this thing on?_

So. Steve has gotten a twitter. That's...a thing. 

He waits for Steve to message him, or even just @ him, but it never comes. Instead, as the days pass, all Steve tweets is political opinions in between judgements about movies and music and artsy pictures of New York or food.

Bucky, after much deliberation, retweets some of Steve's tweets. The internet explodes. Steve still doesn't say anything, doesn't reach out. Bucky can't decide whether he wants him to or not.

* * *

Bucky hears the chatter of kids as he draws close to the lounge, bag in hand and ready to pick up his things to go home. He enters curiously, met by the scene of two young children clinging close to Ellen's side, a woman with similar features chatting to Carl. 

"Hey," he says in greeting, directing a smile at the kids. "And who's this?"

The kids look at him shyly.

"My grandkids," Ellen answers, a protective hand on their shoulders. "Abby and Maddie."

The two girls are blonde and adorable, hair braided into pigtails and shirts adorned with pink sparkles. They're almost identical, both around six years old with matching dimples and toothy smiles. Twins, Ellen had told him before.

Bucky smiles at them, giving a small wave. "Hi. Nice to meet you. I'm Mr. B." He turns to the woman, presumably their mother, who has the twins' blonde hair and light eyes. "You must be....Nicole? I'm James." Ellen has told him all about her family, and if he's remembering correctly, Nicole is her daughter. 

Nicole reaches out a hand, smiling. "Yes, hi! Nice to meet you. We were just on our way out. The kids are excited to see the city."

"I bet they are." Bucky lets go of her hand. "Well, have fun." He looks over at where the twins are tugging on Ellen's hands, begging to see something-or-other, and chuckles. "I bet you have your hands full."

"Oh yeah. Wouldn't trade them for the world, though."

"No." Bucky watches them a little wistfully. "Definitely not." He looks back at Nicole. "Guess they don't stay young forever, right?"

She cocks her head. "Do you have kids?"

"Me? No." He shakes his head, laughing a little. Doesn't think of tiny hands and red hair and whispered Russian. "No, unless you count my cat."

"Sure." She laughs. "Well, I'll see you around."

"Sure. It was nice to meet you." Bucky watches as she and Ellen herd the kids out the door, the sounds of their chattering voices fading as they walk away. He marvels at his successful social interaction, giving himself a mental pat on the back.  _Way to go, Barnes! 10/10._

The next time he sees the kids is, surprisingly, the next day. It's Saturday, which means Temple and rest, but Ellen calls him that night sounding stressed.

"Hey, I hate to ask this, but Nicole fell down the steps and sprained her ankle and I don't want to bring the twins with us to the hospital. It's already so late and they should be getting to bed soon. I just need someone to watch them for tonight."

"Me?" Bucky is surprised. "I mean, of course I'll do it, but why me?"

"There's no one else I can call on such short notice. Besides, I know you wouldn't let anything happen to them."

He's flattered by her trust. "Of course not." He worries his lip. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you."

He pulls on shoes, a coat, gloves, and his glasses and hurries out the door, jogging a few blocks to a busy corner and hailing a taxi. He doesn't like being in a car with a stranger, but he'll deal. Thirty anxiety-riddled minutes later, he's pulling up outside Ellen's house, tipping the driver and clambering out. The door opens on the second knock, and Ellen smiles in relief.

"Thank you so much for doing this."

"No problem." He steps inside, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the coatrack in the hallway. The twins are sitting in the living room, Nicole with her ankle up on the couch and an ice pack on it. It looks swollen and bruised.

"Okay, so Mr. B is going to stay with you until we get back," Nicole says to the twins. "Be good for him, okay?"

"Okay," they chorus.

"Their bedtime is nine," Ellen tells him, "but it's okay if they want to wait up for us." She pauses, squinting at him. "Are you sure you're okay doing this?"

"Yeah." Bucky gives her a nod. "They're safe with me."

"Thanks." Ellen squeezes his arm, and then moves to help Nicole off the couch, hobbling to the door. "Be good, girls."

"Bye! Feel better mommy."

The door shuts behind them, and Bucky is left alone with the girls. Strangely, he doesn't feel too out of place. He had a sister, trained the widows in the Red Room. He knows how to deal with little girls.

He crosses over to them and sits on the floor, crossing his legs. "Hi guys. Don't worry, your mom will be back soon. They'll fix her up."

They nod solemnly. 

"So, what do you want to do?"

"We're doing makeovers," Maddie says. "Mom was going to braid our hair and let us paint our nails."

"Alright, we can do that," Bucky says. Mission plan. "Tell you what, I'll braid your hair and help you with your nails if you get all the supplies ready."

"Really?"

"Really."

The girls look at each other, then spring into motion, gathering hair ties and brushes and nail polish. Bucky wrangles some cookies from the kitchen and paper towels to protect any surfaces from stray nail polish, settling back into the array in the middle of the floor. This, he knows how to do. He helped Becca with her hair and nails often enough, braided the Widows' hair too. 

He shows each of the twins how to braid as he does their hair, twining strands gently and tying the braids off with colorful scrunchies. Then the girls experiment on his hair, making it into some unknown pattern that he's sure only slightly resembles a braid. Their little hands tug and pull at his hair, but he bears it with good grace. There's not a single bone in his body that urges him to respond to them with violence. They don't register as a threat in his mind, and somehow his subconscious must know not to hurt them no matter what they do. He has never hurt kids, even at his worst.

"Why are you wearing a glove inside?" Abby asks as they move to nail-painting. 

"I hurt my arm," Bucky says, patiently holding out his right hand so they can slop pink polish on the fingers. "And it looks weird, so I don't let people see it."

"Oh," she says simply, with all the uncaring acceptance provided by youth. "Okay. I'll just do your right hand then."

When everyone is pretty, stray nail polish cleaned up and fingers air-drying, pajamas donned and teeth brushed, Bucky relocates them to the couch on their insistence that they don't want to sleep until their mother is home. It's nine o'clock, and they're getting sleepy, but they're very stubborn about staying awake. It reminds Bucky of someone he knew, he thinks with a private smile.

He lets them pick a movie to put on - Frozen - and the girls, without prompting, snuggle up on either side of him. They're so trusting, he thinks. So quick to let themselves be vulnerable. A far cry from the little girls he taught in the Red Room, who were already dangerous and sharp before he entered their lives, already so far from children. He had tried to protect them, to give them kindness with the last fragment of Bucky Barnes stubbornly clinging on in his mind despite Hydra's attempts to silence him. But it had been too late for most. They were warped and twisted by the Red Room, raised as killers without emotion or vulnerability, without humanity. And one by one, he had lost them. Only Natalia remains. 

By the end of the movie the girls are yawing but still awake, tucked under his arms with their heads resting on his chest, a blanket drawn over them. 

"Can you sing?" Maddie asks, as Bucky turns off the tv and sets the remote down. "Like Elsa?"

"I suppose," he says quietly. "I haven't in a long time."

She shifts, looking up at him expectantly. Bucky sighs, searching his mind for a song. It comes all at once, knowledge slipping in place like a well-worn path. He remembers his mother singing him and Becca to sleep, voice quiet and lilting.

_Shlof, mayn kind, ikh vel dikh vign..._

He begins to sing, voice soft and rusty, Yiddish tripping hesitantly off his tongue. 

" _Shlof, mayn kind, ikh vel dikh vign,_

_Ikh vel dir zingen a sheynem nign,_

_Shlof, mayn kind, in dayn ru,_

_Makh-zhe dayne eygelekh tsu."_

He feels the girls' breathing deepen, small bodies nestling against him. By the time he gets to the end, they are asleep.

* * *

He hears the car pull in around midnight, and the sound of someone crutching up the steps. He doesn't dare move and disturb the girls, so he waits for them to come in, moving as quietly as they can. A lamp is still on in the living room, enough to see by, and Ellen walks in looking tired, Nicole in tow on crutches. 

"Oh," Ellen whispers, catching sight of the girls. Her expression melts in fondness.

"They wanted to wait up," Bucky whispers back.

Ellen nods, leaning over to shake Maddie gently. "Hey girls, your mom's home. It's time for bed."

The girls semi-rouse, blinking blearily. Bucky carefully extricates himself and then scoops Maddie up, carrying her to her bedroom before doing the same for Abby. They sleep in the same room, beds a few feet apart. He pulls their covers up, a familiar motion from years of putting Becca to bed, and resists the impulse to kiss their foreheads. They're out again in moments, hands curled around their blankets, and Bucky closes their door and pads back through the house. 

Ellen helps Nicole get situated and then joins Bucky in the kitchen, smiling when she notices his hair and nails. 

"How is Nicole?" Bucky asks quietly.

"She's alright. Just a sprain. You should stay," she says. "I don't want you going back so late. I can make up the couch, drive you back in the morning."

Bucky considers. Alpine will be fine for the night, and it saves him a taxi ride back.

He nods. "Alright."

Ellen gives him a blanket and pillow, and he lies on the couch, the strangeness of sleeping somewhere other than his apartment novel. The fact that he's been in one place so long that he's gotten used to it, has gotten  _comfortable,_ is astounding. He's actually stayed in one place for eight months so far, and has no plans to move on. The permanence is slightly terrifying. He may be hiding, but he's not running. He's settled down, has a life, friends, a goddamn cat. It's so.... _normal._

It's not normal, of course, that he can't sleep because the house doesn't have his security measures, because he doesn't know all the points of ingress and egress. He misses the comfort of his knife under his pillow. He manages cat-naps, waking every forty minutes like clockwork, on a soldier's schedule. At least this way he doesn't have nightmares. He wouldn't want to risk that here, with people he could hurt or scare.

At 8:00 in the morning, he detects the first stirrings of life and gets up, folding his blanket and meandering into the kitchen. After checking the fridge, he decides to make toast and eggs, guessing Ellen and Nicole must be exhausted from last night. Sure enough, just as he's finishing up they emerge, Nicole hobbling along and Ellen hovering.

"Did you make breakfast?"

He nods. "Least I could do."

Ellen gives him a look. "You're the one who watched the girls. We should be thanking you."

He waves the spatula. "It was no trouble. They're great."

"I see you let them pretty you up," Nicole says, humor in her voice. "Nice nails. And hair."

Bucky touches his unraveling braid, pink scrunchie holding on by a thread. His nails are pink and sparkly, and he kind of loves them. "Thanks."

As if summoned, the twins come trooping down the hall, making a beeline for their mother and hugging her.

"Mommy are you okay?"

"I'm okay, sweetie. Just a little boo-boo."

"It's not going to look weird, is it?"

"What?"

"Mr. B says he has to wear a glove inside because he hurt his arm and it looks weird. Do you have to do that too?"

Nicole shoots a stricken look at Bucky. He waves it away. 

"No," she says, clearly out of her depth. "No, it's just a little bruise. It'll be fine."

"Okay." Clearly appeased, the twins start scavenging for food. 

"I'm sorry," Nicole says to Bucky. "I don't-"

"It's fine." He shrugs. "They're just repeating what I told them. No harm in that."

"Still." She smiles gratefully when he slides her a plate of food. "They're still learning uh, what's the word...tact?"

Bucky chuckles. "I don't mind. It's refreshing. Kids just say what they think." It's true. Everyone these days seems to say one thing and mean another. Interaction is fraught with expectation. He prefers talking to kids. 

"Hmm. Yeah, I suppose."

A small hand tugs on his sleeve. "Mr. B."

He looks down. "Da, myshka?"

Abby points upwards. "I can't reach."

"Where is it?"

"In that one."

Bucky holds out his hand. "Here. I'll pick you up. You can get it yourself."

Abby grabs his hand and he wraps an arm around her waist, lifting her up easily to reach the cupboard. She barely weighs anything, so with his super-strength he could lift her over his head if he wanted. He doesn't. No need to freak anyone out about her falling, though he'd never let that happen.

Abby giggles, grabbing the box of cereal and waiting for him to let her down. 

"Whoah," Maddie says, bouncing on her heels. "That was so cool. Do me next!"

"You don't even need anything," Abby protests.

"So?" she snipes back. 

Bucky stealth-attacks, grabbing them both and hefting them up as they shriek in delight. He used to let the Widows sit on his shoulders, playing with his hair as he trained. He used to give Becca piggy-back rides, and grab her and spin her around in the air until she was breathless from laughter. 

He spins the girls around once before setting them down again gently and ruffling their hair in a gesture that is so familiar it makes his heart squeeze. Their reactions are familiar too, scrunched up faces and ducked heads, mock-annoyed protests and patting down of hair. Bucky smiles so wide it hurts.

When he looks up, Ellen and Nicole are staring at him with identical expressions of amazement and fondness. The twins are now fighting over the cereal at the table, chattering away rapidly. 

"You're really great with kids," Nicole says. "You've definitely done this before."

Bucky shrugs. "I had a little sister."

He senses when his phrasing sinks in.

"Had?" Nicole questions softly.

He closes his eyes briefly, swallowing down the grief. "Yeah." It comes out rough. He takes a deep breath. "And I...tutored some girls for a while. Watched them grow up."

"Where are they now?"

 _Fuck._ He shouldn't have said anything. He shakes his head, inhaling sharply. "Gone."

"I'm sorry." Luckily, she doesn't press, or ask what he means by  _gone._ "Well," she says, forcibly light. "If we're in the area again and need a babysitter, I know who to call."

Bucky smiles slightly. "I'd be happy to."

"You said something to Abby," Ellen says. "When she asked you to get the cereal. It sounded like another language?"

"Oh." He thinks back, realizing what he'd let slip without thinking. "Sorry. It's...Russian. Sorry. I just-"

"You speak Russian?" Nicole interjects.

He nods. "Um. Yes. Sorry. I just...I wasn't thinking. It slipped out."

"What did you say?"

"I just..I called her myshka. It means, um, little mouse. I used to..." He shrugs. "The girls - they were Russian. It just slipped out."

"Were you an English tutor?"

Bucky is maybe panicking a little. He hadn't prepared for these questions. "Um...something like that," he manages. He hesitates. Maybe he can talk about this. "They were in a...bad situation. No family. I tried to help them, but...well, in the end there wasn't much I could do. I don't know, maybe I made it worse. Only one girl got out."

"Those poor kids. Well, it sounds like you did your best. It's not your fault. There's some horrible people in the world."

Bucky huffs a breath. "Yeah, trust me, I know." He sighs. "I guess it makes you appreciate the good. I mean, seeing them..." He waves a hand at Abby and Maddie. "They're so happy and trusting. It's nice." He looks at her. "You've done a great job."

Nicole smiles gratefully, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Thank you."

Bucky just nods, feeling suddenly off balance. They settle into casual conversation as they finish breakfast. Afterwards, Ellen drives him home, and the twins give him a hug before he goes. 

"We'll miss you, Mr. B!" they chorus, arms barely reaching around his waist. He pats their backs and ruffles their hair, and wishes Nicole speedy healing, and then he's out the door and they are gone. He'll miss them, too. Helping to raise Becca, protecting the widows - those are some of the few truly good things he's done in his life. 

"Maybe you should be a babysitter," Ellen says. "I can tell you love kids. You're great with them."

"Me?" Bucky blinks. "I don't know." He's never considered that as an option. Who would let the Winter Soldier watch their kids?

"Well, I'll tell you one thing, they'd be the safest kids in the entire world with you watching them."

Bucky frowns over at Ellen. "What do you mean?"

Ellen just shakes her head. "Oh, nothing. I'm sure you'll keep them safe, is all."

* * *

Bucky stares at the text message from an unknown number for too long before finally opening it, barely breathing.  

> _Hi. This is Barnes, right? Who am I kidding, of course it is. I'm good like that. This is Tony Stark. Out of respect for your privacy (Pepper made me say that) I am not going to track you down even though I definitely could. Honestly, your technology skills are terrible. Who taught you, old man? Don't answer that. I've taken the liberty of making your account untraceable. You're welcome._
> 
> _You should know that Captain Spangles here is pining, like, majorly. Maybe consider dropping him a line in between tweets. Also, please let me look at your arm. I will give you anything. I also will not turn you in to the government. Seems like you're past all the murder and stuff so good for you._
> 
> _Anyway, no one should be able to find you. Even Rogers. Figured you deserve that much, even if I do still kind of hate you. Not really your fault, though. You probably don't even remember. How much do you remember? Never mind, you don't have to answer that._
> 
> _Cheers,_
> 
> _Tony Stark_

Bucky reads it, then reads it again.  _What the fuck._ Tony Stark is...protecting him? He can't even begin to decipher some of the things in the message, so he pushes them aside and focuses on what he knows. One, that Tony Stark could definitely find him, but he won't. Two, that he's helping him to hide from Hydra and Steve alike. Three, that Steve is still looking for him. 

What is he supposed to do with that? He supposes the message merits a reply, but he has no idea what to say. In the end, he keeps it simple.

> _Thank you_
> 
> _-Bucky_

At least now he doesn't have to worry about his tweets so much. He looks up Tony Stark, squints suspiciously at his net worth and war profiteering and thinks he maybe hates him a little too, then decides to just accept that this is his life now. Not much he can do about it. 

* * *

 

>   _ **Notifications:**_
> 
> _1,205,493 followers_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: bananas...have betrayed me_
> 
> _@mlopez: What happened?_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: they don't taste like bananas are supposed to?_
> 
> _@jenlav: The bananas back in your day were Gros Michel. They all died out, the ones today are Cavendish._
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: Thx. i am devastated. I will never eat bananas again._     

* * *

>    _@realbuckybarnes: we had a Catholic president???_
> 
> _@moonmon: It's implied you killed him_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: fuck_

* * *

>    _@realbuckybarnes: we have a Black president????_
> 
> _@jeremyh: Bet you're pretty horrified, huh_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: why the fuck would i be horrified this is amazing_
> 
> _@hannahh: Wasn't everyone from your time like, pretty racist?_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: not much has changed_
> 
> _@fandomluvs: Oooh, tea_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: why do people think i would be against progress we literally made the first integrated unit in history and fought for that shit_
> 
> _@caitycat: To be fair you and Steve were pretty much the epitome of white America and patriotism/nationalism_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: ok fuck you history i am jewish and queer and steve was the disabled son of an irish catholic immigrant single mother_
> 
> _@johnsn: Yeah, no. Your dog tags said Protestant. You're not Jewish._
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: my ma was jewish dad protestant it was safer to put the P. fuck off._
> 
> _@sagemma: Wait, did Bucky Barnes just come out??_
> 
> _@veronicamarss: Oh my god_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: and fuck you especially @FoxNews_
> 
> ***Steve Rogers retweeted your tweet***
> 
> _@realsteverogers: Fox News is an embarrassment to America and the idea of free press_
> 
> _@realsteverogers: As the bisexual, disabled son of an Irish Catholic immigrant single mother during the Great Depression, I've long been aware of the systemic prejudice in our country_
> 
>                               _@candicem: Oh my god did Captain America just come out???_
> 
> _@sagemma: Wait, were you and Bucky boyfriends?? Oh my god!!_
> 
> _[Trending:_
> 
> _#Captain America_
> 
> _#BuckyBarnes_
> 
> _#CaptainBisexual_
> 
> _#SteveandBucky_
> 
> _#StarBucks]_                  

* * *

There's a media shitstorm after both Bucky and Steve come out via twitter, with people rampantly speculating about their relationship and that they're together now. Steve confirms nothing besides his own sexuality, dodging any questions about Bucky, and Bucky does the same. It's an exercise in deliberate ignorance, while at the same time being extremely aware of the other's presence. Bucky has no idea what he's doing.

Luckily, spring break starts the day of Passover and lasts for a full week. He registers for his temple's community seder on the first night, finding himself welcomed with open arms. When it comes time for the urchatz, he only hesitates briefly before taking off his glove and washing both hands, metal and flesh alike. No one comments. They drink and eat and recite the blessings and Maggid, and and Bucky relaxes into the warm atmosphere. He thinks on enslavement, his ancestors and his own, and feels his soul knit back together, sanctified. There is laughter and singing and even dancing at the end, when everyone is full and sleepy, and he has never felt so at home. 

"James, is it?" someone asks, taking his metal hand without fear. 

"Bucky," he says, and is rewarded by a smile.

* * *

Bucky plans to spend the week resting and observing Passover, and avoiding tweets about Steve. On Monday, however, he wakes to the news cycle once again centered around him, only this time for something miraculous.

A  _pardon._

President Obama has made a statement. A statement about  _him._  

> _"In recognition of Sergeant Barnes' bravery, his sacrifice, and his never-ending determination to keep fighting, I am offering him a pardon for all crimes committed while held captive by Hydra. Sergeant Barnes is, without a doubt, the longest serving prisoner of war in history. He is one of our own. A hero who laid down his life for his country, and found it stolen by the very enemy he fought. This pardon is not an accusation of guilt, or culpability, but a chance to start over. For those whose lives were cut short by Hydra, we do not forget you. But this is not a time for blame and division, not when it is one of our own under fire. It is a time of forgiveness and healing. I hope we can come together, as one nation, to mourn those who are gone and help those who are still here. Thank you, and God bless America."_

Well fuck. What is he supposed to do with this? 

He's free. Bucky finds his breath stilling in his chest as it sinks in. He's  _free._

A startled laugh escapes him.  _He's free._ He doesn't have to hide, not from the government. He. Is. Free.

He barely knows how to comprehend it. He can go anywhere he wants, could stride right up to the FBI and they wouldn't arrest him. He could be Bucky again.

His smile dies. No, he can't. He has a life here, a new name, a home. He's pretty sure faking his identity and a teaching degree is illegal, and the revelation that the Winter Soldier has been teaching kids wouldn't go over well. He'd lose his job for sure, perhaps be charged, definitely never see his students again. And he can't do that. He can't. Besides, it's better if no one knows where he is. Maybe on paper, he's free, but there's still people looking for him - Hydra especially. It's dangerous to be visible, to assume his true identity. God only knows what any number of people would do to get their hands on a supersoldier like him.  

So, he decides: He's not running, but he's still hiding. He no longer has to fear arrest, but he's not going to go around announcing his identity, either. He's going to carry on with his simple life. Nothing's changed, not really. 

Except, with the pre-emptive pardon, he doesn't know if anyone is investigating his crimes anymore. He still doesn't remember all of them, and the ones he does are usually vague and blurry, no names attached. Surely they've put everything together by now, figured out all his victims? He hopes so. They deserve justice. He knows,  _knows_ it wasn't him, but it doesn't stop the guilt, the sense that this pardon is letting him off too easy. 

He hesitantly tweets, unsure what to say. 

> _@realbuckybarnes: Thank you, Mr. President_. 

He's mobbed by people wanting to know how he feels, if this means he's taking responsibility for the crimes, but he ignores them. He's used to it. People have been asking him the same questions all along - does he remember, does he think his victims deserve justice, does he feel guilty.  _Yes,_ he thinks. It's always yes.

He tweets again, after a fashion, writing first in the notes app and then posting as a picture. There are so many things he needs to say.

> _@realbuckybarnes:_
> 
> _[While I'm grateful for the pardon, I realize that it doesn't change what happened - the people I hurt. Yes, I do feel responsible, even if I know I didn't have a choice. The truth is, I don't even remember most of them. I almost wish I did just so I could give them the justice they deserve. They don't deserve to be forgotten. But I guess no one really gets what they deserve. I'm not sure I deserve to be forgiven for what I did, but I'm not going to throw away this chance to start over. If there's one thing I can do to make up for those years and give the middle finger to Hydra it's live a good life. So don't go looking for me, or ask me how I feel about all this. Truthfully, it's none of your goddamn business. I'd like to just be a normal fucking person for once._
> 
> _Thanks,_
> 
> _-Bucky]_
> 
> **_*Steve Rogers retweeted your tweet*_ **
> 
> _@realsteverogers: #ImwithBucky_

* * *

Bucky wakes early - or late, depending on how you look at it - from a nightmare the next day, spending a few minutes just trying to breathe again. The room feels too small, too claustrophobic, and eventually he gets up, tugs on sneakers, gloves, and a cap, and leaves the apartment before he goes insane. The air outside is crisp and fresh, clearing his head, and the normal sounds of the city are muted, streetlights glowing faintly in the darkness. He walks for a while, until his dream starts to fade, and then ducks into a small 24-hour diner that's empty save a couple young people and a tired waitress. He takes a seat in the back corner, where he can see the doors and windows, and waits for the waitress to come over.

"What can I do for you?"

"Just a coffee please," he says quietly. 

"Alright, coming right up."

Bucky shifts in his seat, scanning the diner again from under his cap, hair hanging around his face in limp strands. He'd trimmed his beard the day before, so now it's stubble, closer to what it was as the Winter Soldier. Without his glasses, he's more paranoid about being recognized.

He scans the diner again. Three young people huddled around a booth, likely intoxicated. One waitress. He breathes in, breathes out. Rubs his sweaty palm on his joggers and tugs the sleeves of his sweater down around his gloved hands. The waitress returns with a coffee, a tiny thing of creamer to go with it. 

"Anything else?"

"No, thank you."

She nods, hesitates, squints at his face, and then leaves. Bucky pours creamer into his coffee, dumps in two packets of sugar, stirs, and then takes a sip. He pulls out his phone and scrolls through twitter, pausing to retweet a couple of things and answer a few questions from his followers.  

> _@locana: What should I eat? #AskBucky_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: cookies_
> 
> _@hannahwilke: How do I talk to my crush? #AskBucky_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: Idk tell them you like them_
> 
> _@tessaalbright: @realbuckybarnes Should I dye my hair purple? #AskBucky_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes go for it_

He takes a picture of his coffee cup, gloved hand wrapped around it, and tweets it with the caption  _shitty diner coffee is the best coffee._  

> _@jennacole: @realbuckybarnes What are you doing up at 3am?_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes this_
> 
> _@nicoleri: @realbuckybarnes Where are you?_
> 
> _@realbuckybarnes: here_
> 
> _@chitauri22: lol @realbuckybarnes trolling people_

_@realbuckybarnes: the real question is why everyone else is awake at 3am_

_@jennacole: Don't drag me like this. Also I'm in college._

_@realbuckybarnes: valid but get some sleep_

_@shoshanna: I'm playing video games_

_@realbuckybarnes: go to sleep_

_@shoshanna: Okay Mr. Barnes but take your own advice_

_@realbuckybarnes: would if i could_

"Refill?" Bucky looks up to see the waitress holding up a carafe. He nods and slides his cup over so she can top it up.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

She smiles and moves away again, and Bucky curls back over his coffee, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and cursing his growing headache. It's going to be a bad day, then. 

His dream still lingers in the back of his mind, ready to drag him back into its vise grip. He knows it is another Hydra memory, fragmented and blurry, full of fear and pain and confusion. Most of them are like that, like looking through shattered glass, memories distorted by wipes and programming and later, the drugs. Sometimes he only gets a sense or a image, a feeling without any context. The clearest are from before they started using the chair, in the first years of his capture; they are full of torture, mostly. _Conditioning._ Experimentation. Training. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, willing the flashes behind his eyes of concrete walls spattered with blood to fade. He breathes in, breathes out. Opens his eyes and scrolls through Twitter again to distract himself. He follows a few accounts, most notably @catsofinstagram, @RealGrumpyCat, and @NASA. So he likes cats and space, sue him. Most of his activity comes from people who @ him. He only responds to ones he chooses, but there's a lot. He's surprised so many people want to talk to him. The nice ones, at least. There's always assholes @ing him, he knows that.

 _How do you sleep at night, murderer?_ they ask.  _Not great,_ Bucky thinks scathingly. As if it isn't obvious from his frequent middle of the night tweets. 

He finishes his coffee slowly and leaves more than enough cash on the table to cover a hefty tip before slinking back out into the early morning air. It's April, and warm enough to go without a heavy coat and scarf but too cold for short sleeves. Bucky loves it, because it means he can still wear long sleeves but also not be freezing all the time like in winter. He  _hates_ the cold.

His headache is pressing insistently against his temples by the time he gets home. He strips his sweat-soaked sheets and replaces them with the spare set he got for this reason, feeding Alpine and taking a quick shower before crawling into bed. He drifts in and out the rest of the day, surfacing occasionally to eat and drink. He takes a picture of Alpine sprawled on his chest and posts it to Twitter, with the caption  _sometimes you just need a catnap._ He thinks he's pretty funny.

> _@KateBishop: Asshole! I love her sm_
> 
> _@Caitycat: Adorable!_
> 
> _@nicole_16: I would die for her_

* * *

Mid-week, it's time for Alpine's vet checkup. He'd researched the best place and scheduled it this week for a reason, so he'd have time to get there and back. Thursday morning, he coaxes Alpine into her carrier and sets out, walking smoothly so as not to jostle her. He gets to the vet office an hour later, immediately nervous at the sharp smell of antiseptic pervading the space. The waiting area is small but cozy, with tile floors and posters about various pet products tacked up on bulletin boards on the walls, an orange cat lying on the counter and flicking its tail idly. There's a scruffy looking man with a one-eyed lab slumped in a chair and an older woman with a small fluffy dog sitting primly. A young woman in patterned scrubs pops up behind the raised counter, smiling genially.

"Hi, how can I help you?"

Bucky moves forwards to the desk, shifting Alpine's carrier on his shoulder. "Um, James Beck, I have an appointment for Alpine?"

She clicks on the computer. "Yep, you're all set. Just have a seat, we'll call you in shortly."

Bucky retreats to a chair in the corner of the room, which is unfortunately close to the man with the one-eyed lab. He simply gives Bucky a nod as he sits down, his dog sniffing in Alpine's direction eagerly. 

"Clint?" someone calls out. The man stands up, revealing a couple bandaids on his face.

"That's me," he says. "Come on, buddy."

The dog woofs and follows Clint into the room, leaving Bucky alone. He returns to scanning the room methodically. Five minutes and six seconds later he is called into a different room, following the tech with Alpine's carrier tucked under his arm. As soon as he gets into the exam room his heart rate doubles, panic buzzing in the back of his brain. Four walls, steel table, antiseptic.  _Fuck._

He sets the carrier on the exam table, trying to breathe evenly.  _I'm safe I'm safe I'm safe-_

The tech opens the carrier and pulls Alpine out gently, starting to look her over. Bucky has to clench his hands into fists to resist grabbing Alpine and running. She's weighed, ears checked and heart rate listened to, the tech petting her and murmuring affections as she examines her. It helps, focusing on that. He knows, logically, she's not evil, is only trying to help Alpine and isn't a Hydra tech, but his brain seems to have other ideas. 

The tech - Trish - tries to make small-talk, but Bucky can't make his tongue loosen enough to give more than one-word answers to her questions. He hovers at the edge of the room, eyes tracking the exits constantly, gloved hands flexing restlessly. 

"Okay," Trish says, writing in her chart. "Everything looks good. Dr. West will be in in a minute."

Bucky nods, trying not to swallow his tongue with anxiety. Trish leaves the room and Bucky occupies himself with petting Alpine, her presence relaxing him slightly. She seems to sense his distress even through her own discomfort with the new environment, pressing against him and licking his hand. 

The door opens and the vet steps in, followed by Trish. Every internal alarm Bucky has goes off at once in a cascade of panic at the sight of her white coat, stethoscope slung around her neck. His breathing quickens, sweat beginning to dampen his hair.

"Hi, I'm Dr. West," she says, extending a hand. Her dark coils are drawn back in a ponytail, face open and warm. When Bucky just stares at her, wide-eyed, she withdraws her hand with a puzzled little frown. "So, this is your first visit?"

Bucky manages a jerky nod. Dr. West approaches the table, reaching out to pet Alpine, and Bucky draws back. 

"Hello there," Dr. West murmurs, scratching under Alpine's chin. "You are just adorable." Louder, she says, "So she's about two years old. The shelter said she got her first vaccinations?"

Another nod.

"Alright. We're going to get her up to date on her rabies and worming medicine." She finishes peering in Alpine's ears and listens to her heart before palpating her belly, finishing with a loving stroke of her back. "Everything else seems good. It sounds like you're feeding her well, so keep that up." She pats Alpine on the head. "Just a little prick and then you can get out of here."

When she produces the needle, the last threads of Bucky's control snap, giving way to pure unadulterated terror. One moment he's standing, the next he's backed against the wall with Alpine clutched to his chest, a knife in his hand and hyperventilating.

The door opens. The knife lodges in the wall an inch from Clint's head, who barely flinches.

"Okay," Clint says. "So you're on edge."

The vet and tech are still standing on the opposite side of the exam table from Bucky, shock and no small amount of fear on their faces. But Bucky can only focus on the white of the lab coat, the smell of antiseptic, the gleaming metal table, the people standing between him and the exit. His breath wheezes in his lungs, vision swimming even as he remains in a fighting stance, arm carefully curled around Alpine.  _Escape escape escape_ blares through his mind, eliminating all other thought. He feels outside his body, everything fuzzy and too bright.

Clint takes a step forwards, and Bucky tenses even more, fight-or-flight instincts clashing. He doesn't know who Clint is, but he's a  _threat._

"Okay," Clint says. "Here's how it's gonna go. We're going to make a trade, your cat for Lucky, and you're gonna go outside and chill while I take care of this."

 _What?_ Bucky's eyes flit to Lucky standing beside Clint, up to Clint's face, cataloging the bandaids, the purple hearing aids tucked into his ears. His stance is easy, but there's something in it that's dangerous, coiled muscles and skill. An agent of some sort. 

The pieces come together.  _Clint Barton. Hawkeye. Avenger._

The last rational part of his brain has just enough power to tell him that Clint is not Hydra. _Ally._ He's also still walking towards Bucky, slowly but surely. Unthreatening, in jeans and a ratty t-shirt, his one-eyed dog pressed against his leg. Clint holds out a hand, and the leash.

"Come on, give me the cat, take Lucky."

Slowly, Bucky relinquishes his grip on Alpine. Clint gently pries her from his arms and places Lucky's leash into his hand. Alpine meows in Clint's grip and Bucky's breath stutters.

"Shh. It's okay." Clint shifts Alpine more comfortably and strokes her head. "I've got her. Go take a walk. Lucky, go."

Bucky doesn't know how he gets out of the room, only that he comes back to himself as he collapses on a bench outside the building, panic attack hitting in full force. He's shaking violently, sweat dripping down the back of his neck and arm whirring as it recalibrates. He braces his hands on his knees as he struggles to breathe, chest tight and black spots dancing in his vision. 

Something wet hits his face, and he realizes Lucky is licking him, chest shoved between his knees and body wriggling as he wags his tail. Bucky digs his fingers into Lucky's fur as the panic starts to fade, incompatible with the bewildering presence of the dog. Lucky settles as Bucky stops hyperventilating, instead pushing his nose into Bucky's chest and slowly wagging his tail. Bucky curls around him, tears spilling down his cheeks as everything hits him in full force.  _Fuck._

Eventually, the tears stop, emotion replaced by bone-deep exhaustion. Lucky sits and rests his head on Bucky's knee as Bucky buries his face in his hands and just breathes. 

The door opens. Footsteps approach, recognizable as Clint's. 

"Hey," he says. "Doing better?"

Bucky scrubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, blowing out a breath. "Why did you do that?" he croaks, looking up. "How did you...know?"

"You do know who I am, right?"

Bucky narrows his eyes. "The...arrow guy. Hawkeye."

"Just checking. I didn't follow you here, if you were wondering. It was just coincidence." Clint shrugs. "But anyway, I recognized you when you came in. Heard something as I was leaving and thought, huh, maybe you in an exam room isn't the best idea, maybe I should check on you. Good thing I did."

Bucky's mouth twists. "I...I wasn't going to hurt anyone-"

"Didn't say you were." Clint shrugs again. "Can't choose what triggers you, but the vet's a no-brainer for you. Anyone woulda freaked having gone through what you did. I mean, hell, I'm not a fan of doctors and none of them turned me into a science experiment."

Bucky swallows and looks away. "Alpine?" He's suddenly afraid that he'll never see her again.

"Your cat? She's fine. I got everything straightened out. I can bring her out to you if you want."

Bucky shakes his head. "No, I should-it's fine." He can't just cut and run, not when the vet was only trying to help. "I should talk to them."

"Okay. I'll go tell them that. Come in when you're ready." Clint turns and goes back outside, leaving Lucky with Bucky. Bucky wipes his face, knowing there's no disguising his puffy eyes, and pulls himself together.

"Ready, Lucky?" he murmurs.

Lucky wags his tail. Bucky stands, stretching aching muscles and turning down the small sidewalk to the door, steeling himself before opening it. Lucky presses against his leg comfortingly, tail wagging as he sees Clint. There's no one else in the room, but Trish appears behind the counter and sets down Alpine's carrier on top of it, Dr. West behind her. Dr. West, though, isn't wearing her lab coat, just a t-shirt, and it sets Bucky more at ease. They must know who he is, he's sure of it, but at least one good thing about the pardon is that they probably won't call the police on him. He steps up to the counter, biting his lip nervously. 

"Sorry," he says. "I, uh..." He swallows, shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Dr. West says, with a genuine smile. "Your friend took care of everything. There's just a couple things you have to do."

He listens to their instructions, takes the heart worm pills and flea medication, and pays the bill. They give him a little packet with her report and profile, and make him an appointment in a year to come back. He thanks them for taking care of Alpine, and picks up her carrier, relieved to see her looking perfectly fine inside. Clint walks him outside and Bucky passes Lucky's leash back, shifting uncertainly.

"Thank you," he says. "For, um, everything."

"No problem. Want a ride home? You look like you're about to fall over."

Bucky feels that way, muscles turned to jello and fatigue weighing him down. He doesn't like the idea of an Avenger knowing where he lives, though. 

He shakes his head. "I'll be fine."

Clint shrugs. "Suit yourself. Hey, let me put my number in your phone. You ever need anything, you can call."

Bucky only deliberates a minute before nodding. He lets Clint rattle off his number so he can program it in, relieved when Clint doesn't ask for his number as well. It's on his terms, then. He looks down at Lucky, who's sitting next to Clint calmly, and wonders at the dog's ability to calm him down so fast.

"Your dog is...nice," Bucky says, words escaping him. "He, uh...he helped."

Clint grins, reaching down to ruffled Lucky's ears. "Yeah, he's great. He's actually a trained service dog, if you're wondering why he knew what to do. I found him a few years ago after the battle of New York, eating pizza out of my dumpster. I was still pretty messed up from being under Loki's mind-control, and he helped a lot. I went ahead and started training him to be a service dog for real. Nowadays, I'm mostly fine, but, you know, when I wake up in the middle of the night not knowing where I am, he's there."

"Oh." Bucky digests Clint's words.  _Mind-controlled._ Maybe that's why Clint seems to understand. "That's...good."

"Like I said, you can call anytime. Even if you just want to steal Lucky for a bit." Clint winks. "I won't be offended."

Bucky cracks a tentative smile, just the slightest tugging up of his mouth. "Okay."

Clint opens the door to a beat-up old car parallel-parked outside. Lucky jumps into the passenger's seat, and Clint closes it behind him, circling the the driver's door.

"Well, see you around I guess." He slides on a pair of sunglasses and slips into the car. Bucky watches it until it's out of sight down the street before exhaling, looking down at Alpine again.

"Well, that went well."

Alpine meows.

* * *

Bucky crashes when he gets home, the aftermath of the panic attack leaving him drained.  He hasn't panicked like that in...ages. He should have known everything about the vet would trigger him, but what was he supposed to do, not go?

God, he'd thought he was back there for a moment. The white coat, the smell, the metal table, the needle...it's things plucked right from his nightmares. All the memories had come rushing back in an instant, bright and vivid and  _real,_ more real than anything else, and maybe he's still there, this is all just a hallucination, an implanted memory,  _programming-_

He scrabbles for his phone as he hyperventilates, pressing the call button on Clint's contact. It rings twice and then connects.

"Hey. What's up?"

Bucky can't answer, breaths coming too short.

"Shit," Clint says. "Okay, uh, do you know where you are?"

"I-" Bucky chokes out. "I don't-I-"

"Alright, lets take a breath first. Nice and easy."

Bucky closes his eyes and breathes, harsh and painful. "How-" he croaks. "How do you..know. What's real."

Clint hums thoughtfully. "Well, reality is a lot weirder than any brainwashing shit, I guess. Like, did you know that snails have 14,000 teeth?"

"Wh-what?"

"I know, right? That's terrifying. Dude, think of all the weird shit you've encountered. No way some Nazi dude is coming up with that stuff. Life is just... _so_ weird. This morning, I dropped my bagel on the floor and Lucky ate half of it before I got it away from him. I ate the other half because, like, I'm not going to waste a bagel, and apparently I have to stop feeding Lucky people food because he ate too much pizza and got sick. And I was like, 'aww, bagel,' but I ate it, and it only tasted a little like dog spit. So I dunked it in my coffee, right, to make it taste better, only I dropped my coffee, too, but luckily Lucky doesn't like coffee so he didn't try to lick it up, but my bagel  _and_ coffee were gone and I had to go out and get some from  _Starbucks,_ which is like, hipster trash. So I mean, yeah. Wait, what was my point?"

"Life is weird," Bucky says, breathing returning to normal. Clint is right - no one could come up with all the weird shit he's seen and heard, especially as a teacher. It has to be real.

"Oh, yeah. Right. How are you doing?"

"Better." He takes a shaky breath. "Thanks. Again."

"Don't mention it. You know where you are?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. Need anything?"

"No. I am. Okay."

"Alright. You can always call me again. We can, you know, swap brainwashing stories, talk about dogs. Whatever."

"Right."

"Hawkeye out."

Bucky hangs up, sighing and running his hands through his hair. He grimaces at its greasiness, damp and frizzy with sweat. His shirt is soaked through as well, and he pulls it off to throw in his laundry bag, taking a quick shower and ignoring the memories that want to surface. He knows he needs to distract himself, or he'll spiral again. 

He taps out a tweet on his phone, turning on notifications for replies. 

> _@realbuckybarnes: tell me weird facts_

While he's waiting for responses, he texts Karen, asking her if she wants to have a movie night. She texts back quickly with an affirmative and a time. Bucky spends the afternoon journaling, listening to music, watching tv, and baking. His twitter fills up with replies, each one settling the uneasiness in his gut.  _This is real._

Around five he feeds Alpine and heads over to Karen's, picking up take-out on the way. Karen's place is in a nicer apartment complex than his, and actually furnished nicely, pictures adorning the walls and all. She lets him in with a smile and they spread the take-out on the coffee table in front of the television, settling into the couch with their share. 

"Rough day?" Karen asks, mouth full of lo mein.

Bucky makes a face, shoving noodles into his mouth in favor of answering. Karen laughs, getting up to start the movie. Pixar, this time. Different from Disney but similar, apparently. 

Ten minutes into Up, he's crying. Karen pats his shoulder consolingly, and he leans into her, blinking and sniffing. Their shoulders press together, and some of the tension bleeds out of him. 

"So, why did your day suck?" Karen asks, after they've finished the movie and she's told him about her disastrous date attempt the night before.

Bucky grimaces, shifting slightly away from her and staring up at the ceiling. "I took Al to the vet today."

"She okay?"

"Yeah. Just a checkup. She's fine." He sighs. "I...wasn't."

She makes an inquiring noise.

"I kinda...freaked out." Bucky swallows. "Really bad."

Karen stills slightly next to him. "Why?"

"It was..." He takes a breath, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm not a fan of medical...stuff. And I..." He shakes his head, biting down hard on his lip. 

Karen lays a hand on his arm, and he hates himself for the flinch that goes through him at the touch. His breath quavers as he exhales, fingers flexing on his thighs.

"What happened?" Karen asks gently.

"I had a...panic attack, I guess. A... friend helped me. Everything was fine, but I just...I was so..."

"What?"

" _Scared,"_ he whispers, voice cracking.

"Oh," Karen breathes. And then she's pulling him into a hug, small arms winding around him and holding him tightly, a hand rubbing up and down his back soothingly. Bucky tucks his head into her shoulder and breathes, and maybe shakes apart a little, but it's okay.

Eventually, they break apart, Bucky swiping at his eyes and pulling himself together again. 

"Sorry," he says roughly. "Didn't mean to have a meltdown on you."

"Hey, it's only fair - you had to listen to me talk about Chad."

"Fucking Chad."

Karen laughs, then sobers. "You know, you are nothing like I thought you would be when I first met you."

"Really?" Bucky cocks his head. "What did you think?"

"Well, to be honest, I thought you were really hot."

Bucky blushes, wrinkling his nose. "Thanks."

Karen laughs again and pokes his bicep. "Hey, it's the truth. I mean, look at this. How is this real?"

He resists the urge to say that only one arm _is_ real. Besides, it's the serum, not him. 

"Okay, okay," he concedes. "What else?"

Karen shrugs. "Kind of...like, tall, dark, and mysterious, I guess. Very serious."

"What?" Bucky makes a face. Well, tall dark and mysterious is kind of true, he supposes.

"I know. Here I was, thinking you were this tough guy, probably super strict teacher, but you're really just a huge softie, aren't you?" Karen teases. "You cried at  _The Little Mermaid_  for God's sake."

"It's sad!" Bucky protests.

"It really isn't." Karen presses her lips together, holding in laughter. "I'm not judging. I think it's adorable. More guys should be like you." She pokes his bicep again. "You look like you should be an MMA fighter or something, and yet you're just the softest, sweetest person ever. I am so platonically in love with you."

"Thanks?"

"You're welcome. Now, prepare to cry at cute space robots."

* * *

"And...release." 

Bucky breathes out, relaxing from his stretch.

"Okay, good work everyone, see you next class."

There's a rustle of activity as people roll up their mats and get their things together. Elena is chatting to Kate about something while Ana, the small bubbly woman who only comes once a week, joins in on the conversation. Jamie is watching her silently as she sips from her water bottle, and Ana glances over, catching sight of her and blushing before turning back around. Jamie pretends she hadn't been staring, running a hand through her short hair awkwardly. Bucky suppresses a smirk. 

"Bets on how long it's going to take?" Karen murmurs next to him. "I say twenty bucks next week Jamie asks her out."

Bucky scoffs. "You're on. I say a month at least." He knows lesbians, and they are  _hopeless._ No way it takes less than a month.

"Alright." Karen tilts her head challengingly and extends a hand. Bucky takes it, sealing the bet with a grin.

"What are you two conspiring about?" Annie steps up beside them, squinting suspiciously.

Bucky jerks his head at the scene. "Placing bets on how long that's gonna take."

"Ah." Annie nods. "What's the amount?"

"Ten," Karen informs her.

"Alright, count me in. I say...sixteen days."

"That's specific." Bucky narrows his eyes. "No cheating."

Annie just smirks. "Wouldn't dream of it. How's the back, big guy?"

"Fine. Good," Bucky amends. "Doesn't hurt."

"That's what we like to hear."

Annie runs the class on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings, though not everyone goes to each one. Bucky and Karen do, because they're obsessed with the class, and so do many others, but a fair amount stick to once a week. Combined with new people coming and old dropping out every once in a while, and it's not unusual to not recognize someone. 

Monday's class, however, finds Bucky with the opposite problem. This time, he definitely recognizes the red-head sauntering through the door, yoga mag slung over her shoulder. 

_Romanova, Natalia Alianovna. Black Widow. Red Room graduate. Expert gymnast, martial artist, spy. Master assassin. Skilled in all forms of weaponry and technology. Threat level: High._

He shakes himself out of his threat analysis, watching her warily as she walks straight towards him. Her face is neutrally pleasant, but he can detect the tension underneath, the way her eyes assess him. She stops a few feet away, gesturing to the floor next to Karen's mat.

"This spot taken?"

Bucky shakes his head mutely. Natalia smiles, letting her mat drop to the floor and starting to unroll it. She's dressed in simple black leggings and a tank top, red hair tied up in a bun and face bare of makeup. She looks like any other woman; unremarkable, except Bucky knows she's not.

Karen glances between the two of them with a slight frown, unknowingly caught in the middle of two deadly assassins, and Bucky forces himself to wrench his gaze away before he's made. Annie calls the class to order and he goes through the motions, keeping Natalia in his peripheral vision. She is, of course, perfect at yoga, flexible and strong, not seeming unruffled in the slightest by Bucky's sidelong glances. It puts him on edge, unable to relax.  _Why is she here?_

As soon as class ends, he approaches her, lowering his voice.

"What are you doing here?"

Natalia smiles benignly, rolling up her mat and standing. "This is a great class. My old instructor wasn't half as good."

 _"Answer the question,"_  he hisses in Russian.  _"What are you doing here?"_

_"I take it you remember me?"_

Bucky is silent for a moment. _"Yes."_ He swallows. "Natashka."

There's relief in her eyes. "Vanya." Her eyes track over him for a moment. "You look good."

"So do you." He knows she must be hurting, now that SHIELD has been proven rotten to the core, her good deeds twisted once more. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

 _"For shooting you,"_ he says in Russian, in case anyone is listening.  _"For forgetting you."_

Natalia's expression softens, saddens. She reaches up slowly, placing a calloused hand on his cheek. _"You never have to apologize for what they did to you."_ Someone laughs, and she drops her hand, the moment broken. Bucky looks around, registering the other people in the room.

"Wait here," he says, making a split-second decision. He finds Karen gathering her things and explains that he's meeting a friend, apologizing. She waves him off, unconcerned, and Bucky gathers his things before making his way back to Natalia.

"Follow me," he says. 

To her credit, she does, walking beside him until they reach his apartment. He figures if she found him at yoga, she already knows where he lives. No sense hiding from her.

He lets them inside and grabs a plate of cookies in lieu of anything else to do, setting them on the table. Natalia's mouth twitches as she settles into a chair, taking a cookie and nibbling on it.

"Nice place," she says. 

"Thanks."

Alpine comes trotting out, meowing and jumping into Bucky's lap as soon as he sits down.

"Nice cat."

"Thanks."

"Is her name really Asshole?"

"It's Alpine." Bucky scratches under her chin. "But Asshole works too."

The corner of Natalia's mouth lifts. She looks around again, taking longer to scan his apartment, eyes lingering on the chair, the rug, the books stacked on a make-shift shelf. Her gaze drifts back to Bucky, and there's something confused in it.

"You really...you're really doing okay," she says, almost disbelieving. "And you, what, work at a school? As a _teacher_?"

Bucky shrugs. "I like it."

"Why?"

He contemplates a moment. "I'm helping. Not hurting. Kids are so...innocent. I'm making a difference in their lives, doing good. And everything's so structured. It's nice. I just...." He shrugs again. "I don't know. It helps, somehow."

"Huh." Natalia leans back in her chair. "Well, I guess you always were a good teacher."

Bucky winces. "Yeah, except now I'm teaching them things like 'the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell,' not how to kill someone."

Natalia snorts. "True." She leans forwards again. "But you were the best thing in all of that, you know that, right? You were the only good thing I had. No matter how much they tried to make you a killer, you were always a protector first."

Bucky swallows and looks down. "I don't know about that."

"Well, I do." Natalia pushes the plate over to him. "Cookie?"

He takes one grudgingly. It's good, chewy and chocolatey. He made them at three this morning, something he's sure his neighbors don't appreciate. 

"So," Natalia says. "You're doing good, you're twitter famous, you're a functioning human being. You even have most of your memories back, I'm assuming."

Bucky nods.

"Then why haven't you reached out to Steve?"

Immediately, Bucky stiffens. He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter."

"Pretty sure it does. You're his long-lost best friend returned from the dead. He's pretty invested."

"I just..." He closes his eyes, biting down on his lip. "I can't."

There's a moment of silence. "Okay," Natalia says finally. "Just think it over."

He opens his eyes, grateful for the reprieve. Natalia must have seen something in his face. She would understand - they are the same, after all. She knows what it is to have your hands stained red with blood that won't wash off, to have your very soul twisted for someone else's purpose. Under all her careful poise is a little girl who used to look up to him for everything, who is still looking to him for something. 

"What about you?" he asks. "How are you doing?"

"You know." She shrugs. "Staying alive, fighting bad guys."

"Hydra?"

"Yeah. You could help, you know."

He shakes his head. "I don't do that anymore." He jerks his chin at her. "Why are you?"

Her brow furrows. "What do you mean? What else would I be doing?"

"Anything you wanted. You don't have to fight."

 _There._ He sees it, the flicker of uncertainty, of pain. She covers it with a huff and a glance down, hiding her eyes. 

"That's never been an option."

"It is now. SHIELD is gone. No one's pulling your strings."

She bites her lip. "The world needs me."

"Maybe. What do you need?"

She looks up at him, and he sees in her eyes again that little girl who is lost. "I don't know," she says quietly. Honestly. 

Bucky nods, and they sit there for a long time just breathing in each other's presence. Finally, Natalia breaks the spell, getting up.

"I should get going."

Bucky dislodges Alpine carefully and stands, nodding. "You can...you're always welcome here, if you want."

Natalia smiles, a real one, small and tentative. "I'd like that."

It feels like they've been given a chance to start over, to get to know each other without the violence and manipulation and terror of the Red Room. Bucky walks her to the door, and she turns at the last moment, leaning close to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you," she murmurs.

Then she's slipping out the door, gone without another word.

* * *

School is back to the grind now that spring break is over, the end of the year rapidly approaching. The AP test is in May, Bucky's students already panicking, and so is prom, which causes equal panicking of a different nature. It's  _promposal_ season, apparently, which means lots of nervous, sweating kids drowning in too much body spray that does nothing but give Bucky a headache. 

And, worse than that, he's ended up on the list of prom chaperones somehow. So he has to actually go to this thing and watch kids with raging hormones pretty much try to fuck in every corner. Or at least that's what all the other teachers say. He shudders just thinking about it.

America and Kate manage to prompose to each other on the same day, without the other knowing, and it's hilarious. Their faces when they realize the other is interrupting their meticulously planned promposal to do the same... _priceless._

Luckily MJ, Peter, and Ned are too young for prom, so Bucky is saved from  _that_ disaster. His introductory biology class is fairly peaceful on all fronts, with all they have to worry about being the end of the year exams still a ways off. His AP Biology class is having a meltdown, on the other hand. It's chaos. 

Natalia - Natasha, she told him she's called now - shows up to yoga every so often, and his apartment a few more times. Alpine, of course, loves her immediately. She makes Bucky set up an Instagram, and his first post is a picture of her holding Alpine (face out of shot), captioned  _cat thief!_

It's cross-posted to Twitter, of course, and he gets an influx of replies wondering who Nat is. Someone does correctly guess the Black Widow, but Bucky doesn't bother to tell them. He'll keep a little mystery, for her sake. His Instagram gains thousands of new followers.

He should have known, in all the chaos, that  _something_ would happen. He's just not expecting it when it comes. It's not Hydra, or anything to do with him, in the end, just a spoiled white kid resentful about his promposal rejection. It's pure luck that Bucky happens to be walking in when the kid comes in behind him, automatic weapon raised. It is the click of the safety, the smell of gunpowder, that makes Bucky turn, reacting without thinking.

_Block. Strike. Grab._

In no more than a second the kid is on the ground, unconscious, the gun in Bucky's hands. Students scream and scatter, but not a single shot has been fired. Teachers rush towards him, and the gun comes up, responding to the threat,  _3 civilians, threat level low, afraid-_

Bucky lowers the gun, blinking back to himself. He sees several people exhale in relief.

"Oh my god. What happened?" Carl asks.

Bucky nudges the unconscious kid with his foot. "Call the cops."

* * *

Bucky sits down on his bed with a thump, putting his head in his hands. He is exhausted from hours of answering police questions and restating the story over and over again, watching as the attacker was led away in handcuffs and weeping parents embraced their kids. What kind of world is it, he thinks, that school becomes a battleground?

He sees it again in flashes - the gun, then chilling blankness, the body crumpling on the floor. It presses against the backs of his eyes, insistent. He hadn't had time to think, had just...reacted.  _What if it hadn't been real? What if you'd killed him? What if you'd hurt someone-_

He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, drawing his knees up. "Stop," he whispers. "Stop it." He's _not_ a killer anymore, not a weapon. 

But he'd slipped so easily back into the Soldier's mind, had  _pointed a gun at his coworkers-_

"Fuck," he gasps, breath shuddering in his chest. His arm whirs in distress, plates shifting, and the sound is too loud in the silence, grating in Bucky's ears, reminding him that he is a weapon, he can't escape it, he was made for violence-

"Shut up!" Bucky shouts, grabbing a knife and battering at the plates. "Stupid fucking arm...goddamn...fucking...ahhhh-"

He hunches over himself as white-hot pain zips up his spine, the knife lodged between two plates. He grits his teeth, fighting unconsciousness, and rips the knife out with a shout.

The pain fades, and Bucky slumps back onto the mattress as the knife slips from his hand. His arm whines and grinds.

"Well, fuck," he croaks.

* * *

The taxi ride to Stark Tower seems interminably long, and Bucky can feel sweat already sticking his shirt to his back. He slips around security and hops into an elevator, surprised when a disembodied voice rings out, a crisp British accent coloring the words.

"Hello, Sergeant Barnes. Do not be alarmed, I am simply JARVIS, this building's artificial intelligence." The elevator starts to move, and Bucky decidedly  _doesn't_ jump and grab the rail. "If you would wait on floor fifty-two, Mr. Stark will be with you momentarily." 

"Uh, thanks," Bucky says awkwardly, heart still racing.  _What the fuck, Stark?_ He couldn't have warned him about the creepy robot in the ceiling when he'd agreed to fix Bucky's arm tonight?

The elevator stops at the fifty-second floor, and Bucky steps off cautiously, looking around. It appears to be a workshop of some sort, with tables and tools and spare parts laying all around. Something whirs and beeps, and Bucky raises an eyebrow as a small robot wheels into view, looking remarkably like a clean Wall-E. 

"Whoa," he says, as it bumps into his leg. "Watch where you're going, little guy."

The robot beeps and pats his leg as yet another wheels towards him, more like a long arm on a base. It makes right for Bucky's metal arm, poking at it inquisitively as Bucky edges towards the center of the room.

The elevator opens with a soft chime.

"Dum-E, Shitcan! Stop harassing the assassin."

Bucky turns to see Tony Stark in the flesh, wearing jeans and a ratty t-shirt with grease stains. Bucky himself is not much better, wearing joggers and an overlarge sweatshirt, hair tied in a messy bun. Stark doesn't give him a chance to speak, moving forwards and shooing the robots off as he rambles.

"Sorry about the robots, they're not very well behaved. Come on, let me get a look at this arm." He leads Bucky to an uncluttered workbench and pats the top. "Take a seat and strip, big guy."

Bucky hesitantly works himself up onto the edge, thankful it's not an actual chair, and pulls off his sweatshirt to reveal a white undershirt. He feels his palm start to sweat just thinking about getting his arm worked on, and watches as Stark grabs a bunch of tools, dumping them next to Bucky. He grabs a rolling chair and scoots close, looking up at him.

"So, what's the problem?"

Bucky flexes his arm, and it squeaks and groans, plates not calibrating properly. 

"Ah," Stark says. "Yeah, that's a problem. Okay, just tell me if you're about to like, swat me across the room."

Bucky nods wordlessly, throat too tight to speak. It helps, being up on the counter, his feet swinging lightly against the side. But the anxiety remains. He focuses on breathing as Stark starts to pry off the plates, the robots that continue to ignore Stark's instructions coming up to tap him curiously. The larger one brings him a screwdriver, dropping it into his lap.

"Thank you?" Bucky says. 

"Dum-E," go away," Stark says tiredly. "Or I'll sell you to a college lab."

Dum-E wilts and slowly rolls away. Stark pokes a broken wire and Bucky flinches. "So, why haven't you and Cap made up yet?"

Bucky grits his teeth. "None of your business."

"Right, sure, got it. Except, he's like twice as insufferable as usual, so could you like, speed things up? His sad supersoldier pining is going to give me an ulcer."

Bucky glares at Stark, a warning to back off. Honestly, how does anyone stand him?

Stark finally falls silent, the clink of tools as he tinkers the only sound. Every time he hits one of the damaged wires Bucky jolts, digging flesh fingers into his thigh to try and ground himself. 

"Jesus, what did you do?" Stark grumbles. "This is a mess." He pauses and looks up. "No seriously, what did you do?"

Bucky mimes stabbing his arm, scowling.

"What? Someone stabbed your arm?" When Bucky just clenches his jaw, Stark's expression clears in realization. "Ah," he says shortly, bending back over the arm. "You know, there are easier ways to get rid of it, if that's what you were aiming for."

Bucky looks away, fighting the lump in his throat. Stark hits the broken wire and he flinches, feeling the haze of dissociation threaten to take over, muscles trembling with tension.

"Take a breath, robocop," Stark says. "You're going all kicked puppy on me."

Bucky takes a couple deep breaths, eyes fluttering closed as he forces himself to relax. Stark starts poking again, more gently. 

"You know, you make it really hard to hate you. I mean god, don't get me started on the files. But Jesus, in person you just make me want to wrap you in a blanket even though you've gotta be pushing two hundred pounds of pure muscle. How do you do it?"

Bucky doesn't respond, concentrating on not swatting Stark like a fly. 

"Do you even know why I hate you?"

Bucky shakes his head, eyes still closed. 

"Figured." Stark laughs bitterly. "Of course you wouldn't remember."

"Remember what?" Bucky grinds out, voice rough.

"Killing my parents."

Bucky's eyes shoot open as he freezes, Stark's words sinking in. His breath dies in his chest, mind spinning, trying to put the pieces together.  _Threat assess. One hostile, no enhancements, advanced weaponry not within sight-_

"You really didn't know, did you?" Stark's voice is deceptively light, but there's strain underneath. "Well, that answers that."

"I-" His chest feels too tight, everything going bright and sharp. "I don't-"

"Breathe. I'm not going to kill you. Not even maim, either, though I thought about it. Like I said, it's really hard to hate you." Stark sounds tired. "I'm over it, we're all over it, let's just forget the whole thing, yeah? No point in opening old wounds. Won't change anything."

"I'm sorry. I didn't...I-"

"Yeah, I know. Just shut up and let me finish your arm and maybe actually give you a blanket or something, god."

* * *

Bucky looks up Howard and Maria Stark when he gets home, staring at the news articles, the speculation. _Mission report:_ _December 16, 1991._ People had made the connection to their death quickly. He still doesn't remember.

He doesn't remember, but he killed them. He killed Howard, who had been his  _friend._

He doesn't know how to live with this. He doesn't know how to live with himself.

* * *

"Hey." Ellen slides into the chair across from him, hesitance in her movements. "You okay?"

Bucky shrugs, staring down at his coffee cup.

"Everyone's calling you a hero, you know."

He looks up sharply, eyes narrowed. "What?"

"For stopping the shooting. It could've been...." She shakes her head. "I don't even want to think about what would have happened if you hadn't been there. Everyone's safe because of you."

"Oh." It feels so long ago, eclipsed by Stark's revelation. "That's...I'm glad." He is. He's glad he could protect those kids. Angry that things like that could happen here.

"What's bothering you?" Ellen reaches out and lays her hand over his own. "Did it...trigger you? I know it couldn't have been easy."

Bucky ducks his head. "A little. I don't...like violence. I don't want to hurt anyone." 

"I know." Her thumb rubs soothing circles on his hand. "But you didn't. You saved everyone."

"But it doesn't  _make up-"_ He cuts off, biting down hard on his lip as inexplicable anger surges up. "It's not a  _scale._ You can't balance - it doesn't-it doesn't _change-"_

It doesn't change what happened, what he did, what he  _is._ A killer.

He presses his gloved hand to his forehead, hiding his face as he fights for composure. His emotions are a tempest of anger and guilt, so much anger it feels like it might swallow him whole. 

"You can't change the past," Ellen says softly. "But what you do now matters. And you did  _good,_ you hear me?" Her hand tightens on his. "You  _are_ good."

He shakes his head in denial. "I'm  _not."_ His voice cracks, throat tightening. 

"You  _are._ No matter what happened in the past. You're doing good now, and that's all that matters. Okay?"

He nods and sniffs, knowing deep down she's right. He can't change the past, only what he does now. It doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt, or stop his soul from feeling like it's twisting with the weight of guilt and grief.

Ellen pats his hand. "Now, eat something besides coffee. We don't want you wasting away, do we?"

* * *

It's a warm day. The sun is shining, birds are chirping, the smell of garbage outside his apartment isn't even that bad. His blue-button up is soft against his skin, tendrils of hair escaping from his bun to tickle his face. He has a coffee in hand, and the demons inside his brain are quieted, if just for a moment. All is well.

The first half of the day goes by smoothly, full of tired teenagers and one minor breakdown over someone's seeds not sprouting. His students are pressuring him to get fish for the classroom. He keeps telling himself he's not considering it, but they're damn persistent. It's not like fish are hard, but what is he supposed to do with them over the summer?

Everyone seems to have recovered from the shooting scare, though he knows many who were in the immediate vicinity are still a little traumatized. At least nothing actually happened; no one got hurt. He is heralded as a bit of a hero by everyone, and it sparks something warm inside him, as much as he would deny it.

Honestly, he should have expected the whole thing wouldn't just go away so quickly, though. He'd dodged the news and reporters, asked for privacy regarding his identity as the hero of the day, and had the whole thing swept under the rug. All the news says is that there was a shooting threat, but it was stopped before anything happened. He hoped it would be enough.

Apparently not, because he walks into the break room, puzzled by the commotion, and comes face to face with none other than Steve Rogers.

"Buck?"

Bucky freezes like a deer in headlights, brain going blank as he and Steve stare at each other, identical expressions of shock on their faces. He opens his mouth, hearing himself speak without conscious awareness, blurting the first thing that passes his addled brain.

"Uh, it's Beck, actually." The words feel very far away. "James Beck." 

 _Fuck._ He wonders if he has enough time to stab himself with one of his knives. He sees Steve blink stupidly, those blue eyes still locked onto Bucky's, wide and vulnerable and  _fuck, this is so bad-_

"Right," Steve says weakly, still holding Bucky's gaze and obviously deciding to go along with whatever this is. He nods, swallows. "I'm-I'm Steve. Rogers. Steve Rogers. Captain America."

"I know," Bucky croaks unhelpfully, internal alarms screeching at him madly. He still can't make himself move. 

"Right," Steve says again, voice pitching up. Everyone around them is staring in various states of bafflement. This is  _bad._ Bucky can feel sweat start to bead on his hairline. He switches his gaze to the guy standing next to Steve, who he recognizes as - oh great, the guy he tore the wing off and kicked off the Helicarrier. Even better.  

He nods at the guy awkwardly. "Uh. You. Are?"

The look of suspicion and alarm on the guy's face is going to blow his cover any second. Thankfully, the guy gets his face under control and extends a hand. 

"Sam Wilson."

Bucky takes his hand, carefully not wincing when Sam grips too tight. He keeps his hand relaxed, hoping Sam isn't put off by how sweaty it is. Fuck, why does that even matter?

"James," he says. "Beck."

"Yeah, I got that," Sam-the-asshole replies, finally letting his hand go. 

"Right." Bucky's face heats. He darts a glance at Steve, who is still staring at him like he might disappear at any moment. To be fair, Bucky's very close to doing just that, cover be damned. His eyes track the room again, assessing exits. 

"James is the one who stopped the shooting," Carl says  _very unhelpfully,_ clapping Bucky on the shoulder because he's a _supreme idiot_. Bucky tenses at the touch, and sees Sam's hand twitch towards his waist to grab a gun that's not there. Great, this is getting better and better.

"Is he?" Steve says, an undercurrent of...something in his voice. His Cap mask is back on, face unreadable. "That's why we're here, actually. Heard about what happened, thought this would be a good surprise for the kids."

 _Well, you certainly surprised me,_ Bucky thinks. He knew they weren't here for him, their surprise made that clear enough, but he'd never thought the botched school shooting would lead to Captain America himself paying them a visit.

"My cousin actually teaches here," Sam says. "Coach Wilson? I told him I knew Cap and he wouldn't let me hear the end of it till I brought him."

There's lots of 'hmm-ing' and nodding.

"The kids will be so excited," Maria gushes. "This is a great surprise. Thank you for doing this."

"Well, you know, anything to make them feel safe." Steve smiles charmingly, all white teeth and perfect blonde hair, and Bucky kind of wants to punch him, except the thought makes him sick. He can feel a headache starting up in his temple, pounding in time with his heart. He barely notices as they start into the hall, all his senses trained on Steve. They go around to each room and Steve greets the kids, who are ecstatic about having Captain America in their classrooms. They don't spend long on each one, just pausing to say hello; Steve takes pictures with each class, signs a few papers, and moves on to the next. Bucky trails behind the group of teachers who are on break, trying not to panic any more than he already is. 

At last, it's time for Bucky's classroom, which means he can't avoid this any longer. It's just his lunch crowd, but their combined excitement could power a whole city when Steve steps through the door. 

"Oh my god," Kate repeats under her breath, as America clutches her hand and looks like she might collapse. 

"Hey guys," Steve says, with a dorky little wave.

"Captain  _America,"_ Kate says dumbly, scrambling to the front of the room. "Oh my god. Hi. It's such an honor."

"Can you sign my jacket?" America asks breathlessly, eyes big as moons. "It would mean so much."

Steve nods, and America thrusts a sharpie at him, turning around and moving her hair out of the way. Steve scrawls his name across the back of her jean jacket, a perfect looping signature that Bucky doesn't ever remember him having. He must have learned it for the USO tour. 

"Thank you so much," America says, as Peter and Ned and MJ nearly fall over themselves trying to get close to Steve.

"Big-big fan," Peter stammers awkwardly, wringing his hands. 

"I really like how you took down the government," MJ says placidly, chewing a piece of gum. "That was pretty cool."

Steve looks like he's not sure if he's supposed to say thank you or not, glancing a little wildly at Sam, who has gotten a decent amount of attention as well. Bucky has no idea what the  _Falcon_ is supposed to be, other than the fact that Sam has wings so the code name maybe makes sense. Maybe. 

Steve holds still as they take a selfie, Bucky watching from the doorway. 

"Wait," America says. "Mr. B should be in one as well."

Bucky raises his hands. "Oh no, I'm good, thanks."

"Come on," she wheedles. She turns to Steve. "You know he's the one who stopped the shooting, right?"

"I heard that," Steve says. "Sounds pretty brave." He meets Bucky's eyes, and Bucky looks away, crossing his arms.

"He's the best," Kate says, startling Bucky. "He's my favorite teacher ever."

"Really?" Steve smiles, glancing at Bucky again. "I can believe that."

Bucky rolls his eyes despite himself, clearing his throat. "Kate's only one of the smartest kids ever. I'm telling you, this room could cure cancer."

"See, I knew you liked us!" Kate exclaims. "Normally he's all, 'Kate, stop doing that.' 'You're all children.' 'I'm going to give you three hours of homework.'" She imitates his voice, pitching hers low and monotone and shaking her finger. "But he's a big softy at heart."

Bucky rolls his eyes again, feeling his face heat. Steve has a creeping smile on his face that's equal parts happy and sad, something weighty in his gaze when it flits to Bucky. Bucky avoids it, uncrossing his arms and straightening up.

"Okay, okay, enough about me. Steve - Captain Rogers has places to be. Let's wrap this up. Here." He steps forwards, holding out his hand for America's phone. "I'll take a picture of all of you."

That seems to appease them, and they all crowd around Steve and Sam as Bucky takes the picture, glad his metal hand can't shake. He stays behind as Steve and Sam set off again, glad for the chance to get away at last. He sinks down into his chair with a sigh, head buzzing. His students are having their own freak-outs, so his goes thankfully unnoticed for a while. 

"Captain America," Ned is repeating, glassy-eyed. " _Captain America_ shook my hand. I can't wash it now. I can't."

"That's disgusting," MJ says. 

"It's  _Captain America."_

* * *

The knock on the door makes Bucky jerk from where he's gathering papers at his desk, and he looks up to see Steve in the doorway of his classroom. The fucker must have waited until school ended to sneak back in. Sam is behind him, suspicious glare in place as they edge into the room like Bucky is a feral animal about to bolt. Maybe he is, he thinks, realizing he's already tense and ready to run. 

"Sam, can you give us a minute?" Steve asks.

"Dude, I'm not leaving you alone with him. Last time he tried to kill you."

"Please." Steve's gaze doesn't leave Bucky. "We'll be fine."

"It's your funeral. I'll be outside." Sam leaves, the door closing behind him. 

"Buck," Steve says. "You know me?"

 _Obviously,_ Bucky wants to snarl. "You're Steve," he replies instead, shifting on his feet. Ready to flee. He's aware of the windows at his back, the door behind Steve.  _Get away get away get away._ "I read about you in a museum."

Steve sighs imperceptibly, body language relaxing. "I know you're nervous. You have every reason to be. But you're lying."

Bucky tenses, panic unfurling in his chest, jaw clenching against the emotions rising at the sight of Steve. He can't have this. He can't have Steve. It's better if Steve hates him, so he'll let him go.

"You pulled me from the river." Steve takes a step forwards, and Bucky stifles a flinch. "Why?"

"I don't know."

"Yes you do." Steve takes another step closer. "Bucky."

"Don't call me that!" Bucky snaps, fraying at the seams. "I'm not him. I'm not your Bucky."

"Yes you are." Another step closer. "That's what everyone calls you, right? On the internet?" There's a harsh edge to his words. 

Bucky grinds his teeth together, looking away. Steve has him cornered and he knows it.

"I looked for you."

Bucky swallows. "I know."

"I waited for you."

"I know."

"And all this time you were, what....right here?" Steve sounds  _angry._ "All this time, I looked for you and you were  _right here?"_  
  
Bucky can't respond, eyes burning.

"And you never said anything. You never reached out to me _once._ "

"I did." Bucky swallows past the lump in his throat. "I did, I-"

"You were here, all this time, and you never once thought to let me know? What the hell are you doing here?"

"It doesn't matter."

"The  _hell_ it does." Steve is mere feet away now, and furious. "I have a right to know-"

"Fuck you, Rogers! You have  _no_ right to my life!" Bucky snarls. "Just leave me alone!"

"You know I can't do that. I spent  _months_ searching for you, only to find out you've been fine all along, talking to the whole goddamn _world_ instead of to me!"

"Not everything's about you, Steve!"

"Yeah, well it kinda feels like this is."

Bucky growls, taking a step forwards into Steve's space. "You don't know me."

"Yes, I do."

"No you don't!" Bucky heaves for breath. "I don't  _need_ you, I don't  _want_ you, just leave me alone!"

Naked hurt flashes in Steve's eyes and Bucky backs away, turning to flee. A hand grabs his arm and Bucky lashes out, metal fist smashing into Steve's face. Steve staggers back, and Bucky watches in horror before fleeing. He barely registers Sam standing outside and Ellen and Karen coming down the hall as he ducks into the bathroom, climbing out the window and onto the roof. He hears the sound of Steve skidding out into the hallway, his breathless voice sending stabs of pain through his heart.

"Where'd he go?"

Ellen and Karen murmur something back, Sam's voice cutting through theirs, but Bucky doesn't listen, curling against a scaffold and letting the pain wash through him. He feels almost numb, shock and hurt and fear all tangled up together. After a while, his phone vibrates, and he pulls it out, squinting at the text message.

_Karen: Hey, you okay? Cap is gone._

Bucky slowly gets up and shimmies back through the bathroom window, opening the door. He finds Karen and Ellen waiting outside, worried looks turning on him.

"There you are," Ellen says in relief. "You okay?"

"Fine," he says shortly, brushing past them towards his classroom. He gathers his things mindlessly, ignoring the lingering presences in the doorway. Fuck, is he running? Staying? Is he going to have to move? Is Steve going to come after him? He'd hurt him, smashed his fist into his face just like before, he'd  _hurt_ Steve oh god no-

"James. James?" He realizes he's hyperventilating, and then his knees buckle and he's sliding down against the wall, knees drawn up and arms covering his head as his chest hitches with aborted sobs. He is shaking so hard he feels he may fly apart, throat working around no air, voices muted in his ears, and-

 

He blinks. He's sitting on something soft, a gently vibrating weight on his lap. Bare walls, shadows, an old tv. Colored carpet on the floor. The scent of wood and plaster. He feels himself settle into his body, head aching. A sharp breath, then another.

"James?" Footsteps. Ellen and Karen enter his field of vision. 

He opens his mouth, tries to shape the syllables. "H-how?" he manages, mouth fumbling around the word, clumsy. It sticks in his throat like caramel. 

They crouch down in front of him, unthreatening. "How what?" Ellen asks.

"How-how did." Another short breath, effortful. "I get. Here."

"We drove," Ellen says carefully. "From the school. You don't remember?"

His mouth twists, eyes squeezing shut.  _Remember._ He never does. It's just holes. He is a being stitched together with pain and emptiness. 

"How long."

"It's only been twenty minutes since we got here," Karen says. "You had a panic attack and then we drove you here. That's all. You just seemed a little out of it."

He curls into himself, hand shielding his forehead. He doesn't know where his glasses went. There is a pain in his chest, a yawning chasm of hurt and grief choking him.  _Steve. Steve. Steve,_ his heart cries.

"Can we do anything?" Ellen asks, voice painfully gentle.

He shakes his head.

"Do you want to talk about what happened with Steve?"

He makes a sound, something wounded and pitiful, and curls tighter as he starts to cry in small, hiccoughing breaths. Tears spill down his cheeks, frame trembling with the force of containing all his hurt. A hand touches his arm gently, then firmer, and Bucky leans into the touch, another arm coming around him and wrapping him up in a hug as he sobs into a soft shoulder. 

"Shhh," Karen says, a little helplessly. "It's okay." Her hand pats his hair in awkward little strokes that calm him, his shuddering breaths starting to slow. He feels Ellen squeeze his knee, her steady voice piercing through the fog of pain.

"You're alright. Talk to us - what happened?"

"Steve-he...and I-" he chokes out, fists clenching. "I can't-"

"Slow down. Just breathe." 

He draws in a shaky breath, then another.

"Wait." He sits up, frowning at Ellen. "You called him Steve."

Ellen and Karen exchange a look. 

"James, hon," Ellen says, "you don't still think we don't know who you are, do you?"

He stares. Blinks. "What?" he asks weakly. "I...how long have you known?"

"A while?" Ellen and Karen both shrug.

Karen's hand is still on his arm, and her voice is apologetic. "I mean, it wasn't hard to put the pieces together, once we thought about it."

"You  _knew?"_ Bucky still can't process it. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"We didn't want to make a big deal out of it. We figured you'd tell us if you wanted to."

"Is it just you-god, how many people...?"

"Relax, James," Ellen says. "I doubt many people actually suspect. We just know you, is all."

He drops his head into his hands with a groan, wiping at the tears on his face and sniffing. 

"So, what happened with Steve?" Ellen asks softly. "Is this the first time you've seen him, since...?"

Bucky nods, lifting his head and swiping across his eyes. "I'm not-I haven't been...ready. I just...I can't."

"Why not?"

"He's...Steve. And I'm..." He shakes his head. "I'm not who he wants me to be. I  _can't_ be."

"Maybe you are," Ellen says. "You won't know until you ask. Why don't you think he'll want you just like this?"

"I'm not.... _him,"_ Bucky says. "I don't want to be. I'm just-I'm done with it, everything."

"And that includes Steve?"

"Yes. Maybe. I don't know." Bucky buries his head in his hands again. "I just...can't do it again. I don't want to fight, I don't want to...deal with everything. And Steve is...he'll never stop fighting. He's just  _too much,_ and I don't want to hurt him again, I just-I can't..."

Karen rubs his shoulder comfortingly and Bucky takes a deep breath.

"I yelled at him," he admits. "I told him to leave me alone. I made him hate me."

"Hon, I don't think Steve could ever hate you."

Bucky wraps his arms around himself. "He doesn't know me."

"Then maybe you should give him a chance to."

* * *

Bucky skulks in the doorway of the VA, avoiding the knowing looks of the receptionist and keeping his hat pulled low over his face. Sam is just wrapping up the session, talking about how to keep going through bad days, and a part of Bucky wishes he could be in that room with the rest. They're all veterans, and they all have similar experiences, even if they don't share all of them. They would at least understand what Bucky struggles with.

People file out of the room, leaving Sam at the podium shuffling papers to stick in his bag. Bucky slips in, and Sam looks up, their eyes meeting. Sam's jaw tightens and he finishes packing up his stuff before approaching Bucky.

"Barnes," he says cooly, assessing him.

Bucky nods awkwardly, hands stuffed into his pockets. "Hey."

"Steve's not here," Sam says flatly.

"I know."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Then what are you doing here?"

Bucky shrugs. It hadn't been a conscious decision to come here, just an impulse borne of curiosity and inner turmoil. Part of him wanted to see what Steve's new friend was like, if he was good for Steve. Better than Bucky, anyway. Another part just wanted to meet on neutral ground with someone who could be an enemy. He's fairly sure Steve won't come after him, but Sam is an unknown. It's been a week and nothing has happened, but the anxiety is eating him up inside.

"I don't know," he says finally, looking down at the floor. 

He hears Sam sigh. "Do you know why I hate you?"

Bucky swallows, closing his eyes. "Let me guess, I killed someone you loved."

"No."

"Because I almost killed you, then."

"No. It's because you hurt Steve."

Bucky laughs jaggedly. "Yeah, I hate me for that too."

"Then why did you do it?"

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Thought that was kind of obvious. You know, brainwashing and all that."

Sam frowns at him. "Why would that make you run from Steve?"

"What?" Now it's Bucky's turn to be confused. "Run from him? I tried to kill him."

Sam scrutinizes him for a moment, brow furrowed. "Barnes, that's not what I meant when I said 'hurt.'"

Bucky frowns. "Well, what the hell did you mean? Cause if you're trying to tell me I didn't hurt him that bad, don't. I fucking know."

"I'm talking about you being a fucking borough away this whole time and not talking to Steve  _once,_ not even to let him know you're alive. I'm talking about whatever you said a week ago that made Steve have a fucking breakdown over it. While you've been running around like everything is fine, tweeting and teaching fucking children in Queens,  _I've_ had to watch Steve tear himself to pieces looking for you, worrying that you were even alive, or okay, and then knowing that you  _were_ okay, you just didn't even want to fucking see him. You couldn't even reach out  _once._ You know how much that hurt him? Because I had to witness that shit. I had to be there for Steve because you weren't, and _t_ _hat's_ why I hate you, Barnes. You did that to my best friend."

Bucky is stunned into silence, mouth opening and closing helplessly. 

"I-" he says. "I didn't-I.... _fuck."_ He sits down abruptly on a nearby chair and buries his head in his hands as Sam's words sink in, the gravity of what he's done. God, how had he thought staying away from Steve was kinder? "Oh god."

"Yeah," Sam agrees.

"I thought..." He swallows. "I thought it was better for him. I didn't-I didn't want to hurt him again."

"Well, you did." But Sam's voice is not as sharp as before. The chair to Bucky's right creaks as Sam sits down, and Bucky keeps his head buried in his hands. "You thought you'd hurt Steve?" Sam asks.

Bucky nods miserably. "I couldn't...I couldn't let that happen again. And I couldn't face him. I just...fuck." He breathes raggedly. "I'm not the person he remembers. I don't even know why he'd want to see me."

"Are you serious? Steve would have turned the world upside down to find you. I really don't think he cares if you're the same person."

"He  _should."_

Sam scoffs. "When has  _should_ ever stopped Steve?"

He's right, but it doesn't make it any better.

"He must hate me now," Bucky says, small.

"Nah, that's just me. He's plenty hurt, but he still wants to see you."

"I'm not...good for him."

"Maybe, but that's up to him. I don't think you staying away has done him any good, so..."

Bucky takes a shaky breath. "What if...what if he's not good for me?"

Sam is quiet for a moment. "Well," he finally says, "I guess you'll have to find out, won't you?"

* * *

Bucky raises a fist to knock, hand shaking. He lowers it, then raises it again. Rests it against the wood of the door and takes a shaky breath. Gathering his courage, he raps twice with his knuckles.

His fist is still in the air when the door is yanked open and Steve fills the doorway. He looks unspooled, eyes full of cautious hope as he stares at Bucky. 

"Hey Buck," he says softly. His face is closed off, but Bucky can see the pain hidden underneath.

"Hey." Bucky shifts, unable to meet Steve's eyes. He clears his throat. "Um. Can I come in?"

Steve blinks at him, eyes roving over his face like he wants to commit Bucky's features to memory. "Yeah," he finally stutters. "Yeah, of course." He opens the door wider and Bucky steps in, their shoulders brushing as he passes. The door closes behind him with a soft shush and click, and they stand there awkwardly in the entryway, both of them too big to fit. Steve hesitates and then beckons Bucky deeper into his home, to a sparsely decorated living room in shades of cream and white. Bucky hates it.

"Nice place," he says.

"Oh. Thanks." Steve glances around like he's only just now seeing it. He shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunching, and suddenly Bucky is flung back seventy years, to a smaller Steve in ill-fitting clothes, suspenders crooked over the bow of his shoulders and mouth twisted in a moue.

"I, um, I saw Sam," Bucky says, voice quiet. "At the VA, I mean."

"Oh. How did...how was..that?" Steve asks awkwardly, both of them looking anywhere but each other.

"Fine." 

Steve nods.

"I mean, not fine," Bucky rushes, anxiety bubbling in his throat. "I mean, it was...I talked to him and. He said. I hurt you?"

"Oh." Steve hunches his shoulders a little more, bare foot scraping at the carpet. He looks smaller than Bucky's ever seen him even a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. 

"I didn't-I didn't know," Bucky says desperately, suddenly blinking back tears, because Steve is in front of him and he's hurting and it's  _his_ fault. He's supposed to protect Steve, not do...this. "I'm sorry. I thought....it would be better, for both of us."

Steve finally looks at him, a spark of fire in his eyes. "How could you possibly think that? Jesus, Buck. You know how long I spent trying to find you? Wondering if you were okay, if you were even alive?"

"I know. I just..." He bites down on his lip. "I couldn't."

"Couldn't, or wouldn't?"

He looks away from Steve's burning gaze, cheeks flushing with shame and a hint of anger. "You don't understand," he bites back. "You don't know what it was like, after. I had to piece my fucking self together." He jabs his chest with a shaking finger. "I was barely even human."

"I could've helped you."

"No, you couldn't!" Hot tears blur his vision. "You couldn't, Steve. And I didn't want you to. I saved my fucking self, and I'm proud of that. I don't know what I would've done if you were there, but it would've be  _worse._ Don't you understand?" He steps closer, fists clenched and shaking. "You're  _everything_ Steve. All my memories, they're all tangled up in you and it's  _too_ _much._ I just...I couldn't."

"But after," Steve says, and his eyes are brimming with tears. "After, you could have found me. You were okay then, I know you were-"

"I'm  _not_ okay," Bucky chokes out. "I still can't...Steve, we're no good for each other."

"Don't you dare say that. After everything, don't you  _dare-"_

"I nearly killed you!" Bucky shouts. "I nearly killed you, and you almost  _let_ me. I'm not the person you remember, I'm not your Bucky, and goddamnit Steve, it's  _you!"_

Steve's jaw clenches, face going cold as stone. "What does that mean?"

"Can't you see I'm not worth all this?" Bucky whispers, meeting Steve's eyes as the fight suddenly drains out of him. "Don't you understand? I don't-I don't want to fight anymore. I  _can't._ And you...you can't stop fighting. I just need you to stop fighting for _me_."

They are a scarce foot apart now, Bucky trembling with the force of his emotion. Steve looks at him with an unfathomable expression, brows furrowed and eyes shining, and Bucky feels trapped in his gaze.

"Don't you know I'll always fight for you?" he asks softly. "I'd fight for you even if I was the last person left to do so, even if I had to fight every other person in the whole galaxy." He reaches out slowly, cupping Bucky's cheek with painful tenderness, as if Bucky is something precious. "I'd fight for you till the end of time, and I'd fight for you even if you never remembered me. I'd fight for you if you hated me, if you never wanted to see me again. I'd fight for you until the world ended and my heart stopped and there was nothing left to fight. So Bucky, don't ask me not to fight for you, because I always will. Because you're worth everything to me."

Bucky exhales shakily as something cracks open in his chest. Steve's palm is warm and calloused against his skin, touch infinitely gentle and familiar. He lets out another shaky breath, a sob, and his eyes flutter closed, tears slipping from beneath his lids. His hand comes up to grip Steve's wrist, feeling his pulse beneath his fingers.

"You don't have to fight," Steve whispers, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone tenderly. "Not now, not ever again. Just please, come back to me. I love you. I'm no good without you, Bucky Barnes."

Bucky sobs and throws himself into Steve's embrace, burying his face in his shoulder. His arms lock around Steve's back, bodies pressed together so tightly he doesn't know where he ends and Steve begins. Fire courses through his veins, washing away the ice and breaking the dam, opening the floodgates of Bucky's emotions. He is shaking, tears flowing freely down his face and hands fisted in Steve's shirt, ragged sobs ripped from his chest; Steve holds him, rocking them back and forth and murmuring into Bucky's ear, and for the first time in seventy years, it feels like coming home.

* * *

They talk long into the night, curled together on the couch, neither one able to bear separating from the other. Steve tells Bucky what he's been doing these past months - hunting down the last of Hydra - and Bucky tells him about his students and teaching and recovery. 

"I'm not ever going to be 'fixed,'" Bucky says, playing with Steve's fingers. "I just...need you to understand. I'm always going to have PTSD and brain damage and I'm never going to be the same person again."

"I know," Steve says, tightening his arms around him. "I'm not the same person either."

"That's different."

"Is it?" 

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. And it doesn't matter to me. I still love you, no matter who you are now." Steve pulls back until they're face to face, noses almost brushing. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes," Bucky breathes, and leans in, pressing his mouth to Steve's. It's dry and chaste, nothing more than a press of lips, but it sends warm tingles flooding through Bucky all the same. 

They make out for a while, every touch sending simple pleasure through Bucky. He craves Steve's touch, the closeness; he wishes he never has to leave the safety of Steve's arms. The urge to be touched is a desperate one, a hunger inside him that refuses to be quelled. He is shaking slightly, shivering with the feeling.

"You okay?" Steve asks.

Bucky nods, pressing himself impossibly closer. "Don't stop."

"Okay, just..." Steve wriggles out from under him and Bucky nearly panics. "Let's go to bed."

Bucky nods and manages not to cling to Steve while they get ready, Bucky borrowing a pair of Steve's boxers. He emerges from the bathroom slowly, feeling the need to cover the scars where the metal arm bites into flesh, but Steve is there, pulling Bucky into his arms again. They fall into bed, skin pressed to skin, and finally Bucky has what he needs. He snuggles closer to Steve, nose pressed into the crook of his neck and arm wrapped around him tightly. He throws his leg over Steve's as well, needing to be closer, to quell the restlessness under his skin. Steve's hand moves up and down his back in soothing strokes, the other holding him close, and Bucky exhales as his body finally relaxes, the touch like a drug quieting his mind. He is floating, mind blissfully blank, everything distant and fuzzy except for the warmth of Steve under him. He drifts for a while before finally slipping into sleep, for once not visited by nightmares.

Waking is slow and blissful, happening in degrees. Steve's fingers run through his hair, and Bucky hums, tilting his head up for a kiss. It's soft and sweet, warming Bucky from the inside out, and he distantly registers Steve's breathing quickening and hands moving more insistently to grip his face. His own flesh hand rests on Steve's side, feeling the smooth skin there, his left tucked under him. His leg is still thrown over Steve's, and as he shifts his thigh rubs against Steve's crotch, the hardness there and Steve's grunt startling him into breaking the kiss. He stares down at Steve, blinking owlishly. 

Oh. Shit.

"Buck?" Now Steve looks worried. "What's wrong? Is this okay?"

Bucky swallows, shakes his head. Maybe he can just not say anything. He has no problem with getting Steve off, it's just that  _he_ doesn't need to get off. He just wants touch. If he can keep Steve from noticing...

"Nothing. I'm fine," he says, diving back down to kiss Steve. He snakes a hand down between them, palming Steve through his boxers. Steve groans, and Bucky starts kissing down his throat, then his chest, tugging off his boxers before taking him into his mouth. This, at least, is muscle memory. He works quickly, bringing Steve to completion with Steve's hands tangled in his hair, and then moves back up to curl beside him again. 

Steve's breathing evens out and he rolls them to hover over Bucky, kissing him without caring about his taste on Bucky's tongue. His hand travels down, lower and lower, as Bucky starts to panic, and then Steve is freezing and pulling back to frown down at Bucky as he feels his lack of arousal. Bucky stills under him like a deer in headlights, trapped.

"You're not-?" Steve looks perplexed, searching Bucky's eyes, then horrified. "Wait, was that not okay? Shit, Buck-"

He scrambles back, leaving Bucky bereft and ashamed. Bucky sits up, hunching into himself as if he can hide from Steve's wounded gaze.

"No, Steve, it's-" Not what you're thinking, he wants to say. Not whatever horrible, self-flagellating thing Steve's beating himself up about. "It was fine," he manages. "It's not you, it's..." He closes his eyes, not wanting to see Steve's face. The disappointment, when Bucky tells him he's broken. 

"I just don't...work like that anymore," he finally says.

He can hear Steve shift on the bed, hear him take a breath. "Is it something Hydra-"

"No," Bucky says sharply. Then, "Maybe. Kind of. It's-" He hides his face in his hands. "Apparently it's common with-with brain damage. But I don't-I don't  _want_ it, either."

There's a moment of silence. "That's okay," Steve says slowly. "It's not-I don't care about that, Bucky. But why did you...if you don't want to...why didn't you say anything before? Why did you keep going?"

Bucky shrugs miserably. "I just...didn't want to tell you."

"Jesus, Buck." Now Steve sounds angry, making Bucky lift his head and frown at him.

"Look, I thought maybe you'd...I dunno, be all disappointed, or sad, or something. I know I'm not the same as he- _I_ was, but you don't got a right to be angry at me for that-"

"I'm not angry about  _that."_ Steve's eyes widen in shock. "I'm angry that you did something you weren't comfortable with just because you didn't want to tell me."

"What?" Bucky stares at Steve. "I'm telling you I don't get off anymore and you're worried about me being  _uncomfortable?"_

"You said you don't want sex right after  _sucking my dick,"_ Steve shoots back. "Jesus fucking Christ-"

Bucky rolls his eyes. "I don't have a problem with  _that._ I'm happy to get you off. I'm trying to tell you that  _I_ don't want to get off."

Steve opens his mouth, then shuts it. "Oh." He blinks at Bucky. "So that was...okay?"

"Yeah, I've been trying to tell you that."

"Oh." The tension melts from Steve's body. "I thought-"

Bucky inhales in sudden understanding. "Oh." 

They sit there in silence for a moment. 

"So," Steve finally says. "What are you okay with? I need to know, so I don't...so none of us end up...uncomfortable."

Bucky snorts, then sobers. "Um, I just...don't really care about sex. Like, I'm happy to get you off, you know..." He makes a crude gesture with his hand. "I like making you feel good, but I don't want it about me."

"So you don't want me to touch you?"

Bucky bites his lip. "No, I..." He feels his face heat. "I really like when you touch me, it's just a little...weird, I guess, when it's sexual. I dunno."

Steve nods. "Kissing?"

"Kissing's fine." Bucky peers up at Steve through his eyelashes. "You really don't care? That I...that I'm broken?"

"You're not broken." Steve frowns at him sadly. "Don't you know by now? I love you, no matter what. A little limp dick isn't going to change that."

Bucky makes a face.

"Okay, a big limp dick," Steve says, and cracks up.

Bucky slaps a hand to his face, blushing, as Steve cackles. They finally sober, and Bucky peeks out from his hand to see Steve gazing at him softly. 

"I love _you_ , Buck," he says. "As long as I'm with you, I don't care about anything else." He shifts to slump back against the pillows, opening an arm invitingly. Bucky sighs and scoots over, tucking himself against Steve's side as Steve presses a kiss to his temple and cards his fingers through his hair.

Bucky chuckles as he realizes his eyeline is right at Steve's still unclothed crotch, supersoldier serum apparently working quite well.

"Stop laughing at my dick," Steve grumbles.

"Want me to take care of it?"

Steve shakes his head, pressing another kiss to his temple. "No, it's fine. I'm good."

Bucky doesn't protest, closing his eyes and relaxing into Steve's hold. He drifts again, safe and warm and happy, knowing that Steve wants him, broken parts and all.

* * *

"You look happy," Ellen comments when he comes into work, veritably beaming over the rim of his coffee cup.

"I am," he says. He feels light, like some weight has been lifted off him. Just the memory of the weekend he and Steve had spent together, relearning each other, makes a smile tug at his cheeks and his heart flutter happily. He leans in closer to Ellen, lowering his voice. "I talked to Steve."

"Oh!" Ellen smiles. "I'm so happy for you." She nudges his arm. "And I won't say I told you so, but..."

"But you told me so."

"You said it, not me."

Bucky laughs.

His students notice the change too, asking him why he's in such a good mood. He just tells them he had a good weekend, is all. 

Kate and America take turns trying to guess what happened. Kate guesses that he won the lottery. Bucky doesn't correct her. 

He gave Steve his number, so Steve keeps texting him throughout the day, little things like a dog he saw or the drawing he's working on or even his food, like a true Instagram blogger. Bucky texts back a heart each time.

 _Can I come over tonight?_ Steve sends.

Bucky only hesitates a moment.  _Okay._

He's nervous for some reason about showing Steve his apartment. Maybe because it's  _his,_ and showing Steve means he's baring his soul, just a little. The apartment was the only place he knew Steve wouldn't go, wouldn't chase him, and letting Steve into that safe space feels like an immense step. 

He tidies up as much as he can, making sure his weapons are hidden and cooking dinner. There's a knock on his door around six and he peers through the peephole before opening it, smiling shyly as he sees Steve.

"Hi."

"Hi," Steve replies. "Can I come in?"

"Right. Yes." He opens the door wider, letting Steve into the apartment. 

Steve looks around, eyes lighting on Alpine sitting up on the armchair. "Is that your cat?"

"Yeah. Her name's Alpine."

Steve crouches down by the chair, extending a hand for Alpine to sniff. "Hi pretty girl," he murmurs. He scratches Alpine's head with a careful finger and she tilts her head into the touch. "Oh! She's adorable."

Bucky smiles, chest filling with affection. "I think she likes you."

"Yeah?" Steve grins up at him.

"Yeah."

His face must be doing something sappy because Steve gets up, opening his arms for a hug. Bucky falls into them, pressing his face into the crook of Steve's neck and breathing deep. Steve smells like soap and whatever softener he must use, a gentle flowery scent incongruous with his appearance. He's wearing a tight t-shirt over fitted jeans, and Bucky thinks he looks, as the kids say these days, like a goddamn  _snack._

No, more than a snack. Steve is a whole  _meal._ Steve is steak and garlic mashed potatoes and maybe even a side of soup, the really good broccoli cheddar kind, and Bucky is really hungry and what was he thinking about anyway? 

"Food," he says, pulling back as his stomach gurgles, and Steve laughs.

"Food," he agrees.

The table is set, and Bucky brings the food out, serving them portions of lemon garlic chicken and rice and trying not to be awkward. This feels like a date, and for all he and Steve had been practically married, they had never really  _dated,_ per se.

"So," Steve says, and he sounds as awkward as Bucky feels. "How are things at school?"

"Good."

"That's good."

Bucky shoves another forkful of rice into his mouth. 

"Sam says hi."

"Oh." Bucky swallows hard.

"He says, uh...he hasn't forgiven you yet, but he's getting there?"

"Oh."

"I'm sorry." Steve scratches his face. "I told him he was being too hard on you."

Bucky shrugs. "He was looking out for you. Guess that's a good thing, since I wasn't there."

"Right." Steve winces. "You're still okay with...this?"

Bucky blinks at him in surprise. "Yeah, Steve. Of course."

"I just...I don't want to pressure you. I know how important it is for you to feel free. Including from me."

"Shit, Stevie." Bucky drops his fork. "You're not making me do anything, okay? I was a goddamn coward for hiding from you for so long."

"You're not a coward."

Bucky reaches across the table to take Steve's hand. "I was. The thought of seeing you...it was terrifying. But now that you're here, sweetheart, I don't think I could bear it if you left."

Steve blushes, a smile spreading across his face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Bucky squeezes his hand. "I don't _need_ you, Steve, but I sure as hell _want_ you. I'm with you till the end of the line, sweetheart. You ain't never getting rid of me again."

* * *

 

>    _@realbuckybarnes: [Image: Steve holding Alpine] the 2 loves of my life_
> 
> _@genuinek: omg omg !!!_
> 
> _@caityycat: #StarBucks confirmed???_
> 
> _@jweled: This is so adorable omg #Assholethecat_
> 
> _@plrudd16: Captain America!! #captainamerica_
> 
> _@ol29: Reunited!! I'm dying #StarBucks_
> 
> _@KateBishop: Captain America + Asshole the cat = Captain Asshole #therealotp_

* * *

Kate is mumbling orders under her breath as America paces, chewing on a fingernail.

"You're gonna do great," Bucky assures them. "It's just an exam. You know this stuff."

America nods, turning on her heel to pace again. The rest of the students are milling around, some studying last minute and others chugging coffee. 

The classroom door opens. His students pale.

"Alright," Bucky says. "Good luck."

America squares her shoulders like she's going into battle, and strides through the doorway, Kate close behind.

* * *

"Are you sure about this?"

Bucky nods, clenching his jaw. "Just get it over with."

Steve combs his fingers through his wet hair, scratching over his scalp. Bucky is sitting on the edge of the tub, Steve standing behind him, and as Steve continues to play with his hair he slowly relaxes, eyes slipping shut.

The first snip of the scissors startles him, muscles tensing.

"Shh." Steve rubs his shoulder. "It's just me."

Bucky concentrates on breathing as Steve cuts his hair, trimming split ends. The steady motions of Steve's fingers in his hair and the soft snip of the scissors lulls Bucky into a peaceful doze, shoulders coming down from around his ears. 

"All done."

He opens his eyes, standing, and goes over to the mirror. His hair is still long, but a couple inches shorter and no longer raggedy with split ends. Instead it falls softly just above his shoulders, drying in waves.

"Is it okay?" Steve asks. 

Bucky nods, tears suddenly springing to his eyes. Months, and he hadn't been able to cut his hair. Now Steve has given him back this small part of himself.

"Buck? You okay?"

"It's perfect," he croaks, and turns into Steve's embrace, letting the tears fall. "Thank you."

Steve wraps his arms around him, holding on tightly, and Bucky feels another part of him start to mend.

* * *

Steve's lip is caught between his teeth, face inches from Bucky's as he does up his tie with deft fingers. He finishes tying it and smoothes a hand down Bucky's jacket, eyes crinkling appreciatively.

"I can't believe we're going to prom."

Bucky chuckles, leaning forward to peck Steve on the lips. "It's more standing there and keeping kids from causing trouble, but okay."

Steve plucks Bucky's glasses from his suit pocket and slides them on his face, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. "You're sure no one will recognize us?"

"Positive." Bucky drags his fingertips along Steve's jaw, activating the holo-mask. Steve's face shimmers, features morphing into a generic man with green eyes.

"How do I look?"

"Like a random white dude. Now come on, we don't want to be late."

Steve drives them to the venue - Bucky is pretty sure the state just gave him a license without actually checking whether he ever learned to drive somewhere that's not a war zone - and they enter side by side, greeting the other teachers at the door.

"And this is your plus one?" the person in charge of the guest list asks, raking her eyes over Steve like she wants to eat him up.

"Yes." Bucky puts an arm around Steve possessively. "Grant Stevens."

"Alright, you're all set."

"I cannot believe you talked me into using  _that_ as your alias," Bucky sighs as soon as they're out of earshot. "Grant Stevens? Really?"

"It's easier to remember," Steve protests.

"You have an eidetic memory, you idiot."

Steve stops and makes a strange face.

"What?"

"I might have almost made a joke about memory and then I thought 'oh no that's horrible' and now I'm not sure whether to laugh or not."

Bucky pats him on the arm. "When in doubt, laugh. Trust me, pal, that's the only way I coped with some of that shit."

"We're really morbid, aren't we?"

"Gee, you think?" Between the Depression, the war, and the sheer trauma of their long lives, Bucky thinks he and Steve might have the blackest humor on the face of the earth.

"Oh look, the students are arriving." Steve smiles in their direction. "They're so small and young, God. Oh, and there's some of your students. You'll have to point all of them out to me, I only know a few."

Bucky tucks his arm into Steve's and leans against him, keeping up a running commentary as students start streaming in. Some recognize him, waving hello, and he waves back, smiling at their colorful dresses and rented tuxes, the air thick with so much hairspray and perfume it makes his sinuses burn. America and Kate are there hand in hand, America in a blue tux and red tie and Kate in a flowing purple dress. They don't seem to care that they're clashing.

The night spins away. Bucky and Steve have to pull apart no less than a dozen horny teenagers trying to get it on, and Bucky confiscates a flask from one pouting and very drunk kid. They mingle with the other teachers, Bucky introducing Karen and Ellen to Steve.

"This is Grant," he says with a significant look. "Grant  _Stevens."_

"Oh!" Ellen beams. "So nice to meet you." 

Karen gives Bucky a hug, squeezing him tightly. "I'm so happy for you," she whispers in his ear.

Everyone is charmed by Steve, some surprised when Bucky introduces him as his boyfriend. Steve blushes under the holo-mask and squeezes Bucky's hand, beaming.

It's late by the time they get back to Bucky's place. He pulls out his phone and soft music filters through the speakers, at once familiar and foreign. Bucky holds out his hand to Steve.

"May I have this dance?"

Steve smiles, taking his hand. "You know, I still don't know how to dance."

"That's okay. I'll teach you." Bucky pulls him close, looping his arms around Steve's neck and pressing their foreheads together.

"I love you, you know that?" he breathes.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Steve kisses him before pressing their foreheads together again, both of them swaying in time to the music. 

"Well good," Steve says. "Because I love you too."

They stay like that, pressed close as the music fades into the background; and for a moment it is just them, suspended in time.

* * *

"Have a good summer!" Bucky calls. America and Kate wave as they follow the stream of students rushing out the door towards freedom. Bucky sits on the edge of his desk and for a moment feels like crying. He's going to miss these kids. But he'll see them next year, he reminds himself. His lunchtime crowd will be back.

When he started, way back in the fall, he was still half an automaton, running on desperation and tactical skill. Now, he is  _happy._ He is a person. He is a  _teacher,_ and he loves his job. 

He makes his way to the front office, answering the summons of the principal. End of the year stuff, he supposes. He sits down across from the principal's desk and smiles genuinely, no longer having to fake the emotion.

"So." The principal steeples his fingers. "Do you actually have a teaching degree?"

Bucky blinks. "What?"

"Do you have a teaching degree, Mr. Barnes?"

"I-wait, what?" He sputters. "I'm not...I mean...I think you've got the wrong-"

The principal holds up a hand. "I'm well aware of who you are."

"I-"

"You're the best damn bio teacher we've had in ages."

Bucky opens and closes his mouth, totally lost. The principal leans back in his chair.

"So. I've got a proposition for you. You get some sort of actual teacher training, and I don't say anything about the Winter Soldier teaching high school."

Bucky gapes, then nods mutely. "O-okay?" 

"Great. Anything else?"

"I...." Bucky gapes some more. "Why? I mean, if you know who I am..."

The principal fixes him with a serious look. "Because unless someone finds out who you are, I'm pretty sure this is the safest school in all of America." He shrugs. "Plus, you're a pretty great teacher. Your kids had the highest test scores in biology we've had in years."

"Thank you?"

"You're welcome. Now enjoy your summer." He stands, ushering a confused Bucky out. "And remember that teacher training!"

Bucky stands in the hall for a long minute, utterly baffled, before he finally collects himself and gathers his things. He makes one last sweep of his desk, straightening the shiny nameplate.

_Mr. Beck_

He smiles, and heads home.

* * *

  **Epilogue**

Bucky wakes slowly, dislodging the sleeping lump of fur on his chest. The other side of the bed is empty, sunlight shafting through the curtains, and Alpine rolls over into the closest patch, white belly in the air. Bucky gets up, padding across the smooth wood floor and into the gleaming bathroom. His toothbrush is on the right, next to the assortment of hair products on the counter. 

Teeth brushed, he goes back to the bedroom to get dressed, sighing as he picks up a pair of dirty socks on the floor and tosses them into the hamper. His work clothes are hanging on the outside of the closet, already pressed. He makes sure to lint roll for stray white hairs. His hair goes up in a bun, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and he rolls up his sleeves over the holographic arm.

In the kitchen, there's coffee still warming in the pot and Bucky smiles, feeling a surge of affection. He pours some into a travel mug and presses his fingers briefly to the pictures stuck to the fridge - sun and sand and smiles. In one, Natasha is sipping a martini at the beach. In another, Bucky is dunking Sam under the waves. In his favorite, Steve and he are kissing, rings glittering in the sun. There's a note stuck on the fridge, scrawled in Steve's spidery handwriting.

> _Dear Teacher,_
> 
> _Happy first day of school! Tell Karen and Ellen hi for me. Did Grace need us to babysit this week? Text me if so. Have fun teaching about plants or whatever it is you do. You must be good at it, since most of your class got a 5 on the AP test. Btw, Clint says Kate stole his dog (how do they even know each other again?) so if she could give him back, that would be great. I'll be back tonight, and I'll give you a massage. I know teaching makes your back hurt. I packed some of the cookies we made in your lunch, it's in the fridge. Don't drink too much coffee!! (but I know you will anyway). Have a great first day, I'm so proud of you Buck._
> 
> _With Love,_
> 
> _Steve_

Bucky smiles, spinning the ring on his finger, before setting off towards the school.


End file.
